Shrapnel Hearts
by TheDandyCrickette
Summary: The Lone Wanderer leaves the Vault in search of her father. What she finds are dark truths about herself and a companion as old and bloody as the Wasteland. Together, can they face themselves? Eventual LW/Charon romance.
1. The Wasteland

**This is the first time I've put any writing up online, so reviews will help me get my bearings and will be greatly appreciated! All chapters beta'd by ArticulateZ!**

* * *

The building was busy with activity; everyone rushed around under the buzzing fluorescents, organizing the country's defense for when the bombs inevitably fell. There was still a little time yet—six months was the estimation—though it might be sooner or later. The Vaults were filled preemptively, other bomb shelters—mostly the subways—were organized smoothly. But there was still a lot to be done before they'd be ready. If they were ever ready.

In a closed room in the back, two men talked. They wore neither the heavy power armor nor the grey-green civvies of the Enclave at the moment but there was still an air of militarism about the room. The red-haired man sitting down with his arms crossed solemnly would have towered over his commander had he been standing. He was in his late thirties, muscular, and listening to orders, his face purposefully blank.

"You're only posing as his body guard; he's already received threats," his commander was explaining. "At some point the two of you will be alone and our assassin will attack, you'll make sure both of them are killed, preferably with some noticeable damage to your own person to throw off suspicion. When they release you, you'll report back to me."

Ever the usher into the underworld, Charon brooded. They'd certainly renamed him according to his intended purpose. Men and women, Chinese informants, unfortunate witnesses, powerful foreigners, and even his country's own leaders – they all died the same when the order was given. A long time ago he'd begun to see only people's weaknesses and the best way to dispose of them at a moment's notice, since he could be made to turn his gun on anyone at any time. Still, he scowled distastefully. "Isn't the government unstable enough as it is?"

His commander glared at him sternly, not allowing for dissent. He wasn't really his commander, since Charon wasn't technically part of the military. Rather, he was his employer. But he was a commander, and he was Charon's. "I'm not changing my mind. We need someone else in his place before the bombs drop. You will do this."

He would, yes. The piece of paper the commander kept on his person – with Charon's ten-year-old self's signature and thumbprint under the writing – ensured that he would, but not willingly. "If I must."

The commander nodded and went on to explain how the assignment would work, his voice trailing off a moment later when the ground shook beneath them.

A hush fell, and the walls and darkness followed. Something struck Charon hard. He didn't know how long it'd been when he realized he was on the floor, pinned down by debris. Most of the building was still standing, for now, but it might not be for long. He freed himself. The very air burned. Something must've been broken but as long as he could move, his injuries could wait.

"Sir?" Charon called out and pushed through the debris near him in search of the commander, digging frantically.

When he found him, it was immediately obvious that it was too late to be of any help. He'd been crushed; there was no sign of life. Charon knelt there, bleeding in the midst of the destruction with the radiation seeping into him out of the air and the dust, lost for the first time since he was a kid. He'd never had an employer die while still holding his contract; it left him with a deep and painful sense of shaming failure and, strangely, loss. He hadn't even liked the commander. Without direction, he didn't know what he was supposed to do. The deafening silence began to fade. Keening screams started to go up in the distance from other survivors.

It occurred to Charon that, with no one around to take the contract, he could take it himself; he could get a hold of his own contract and finally be the one to direct his actions. And he'd do just that. He'd imagined this chance for years and now it was upon him. Tentatively, he went through the commander's clothes until he found the paper, bloody now. As soon as he got the contract in his hands, an awful dread filled him and compelled him to get rid of it, to push it back into someone else's grasp despite how he longed to possess it for himself.

He swallowed hard, scowling and staring from the paper to the commander with furious frustration. Those bastards had him trapped. He should have guessed they wouldn't risk such a big investment running off as master of his own will. Angrily, he tried to tear the paper to bits in his hands but found he couldn't bring himself to do it and, defeated, resolved to stow it securely in a pocket and hand it over to the first Enclave officer he found and dragged himself carefully out of the unsteady building, stopping to help people out if he found them alive.

Outside was a disaster. Most of the buildings had been flattened and as he walked slowly down the street, everywhere around him there were fires and corpses. He hadn't heard the sirens inside, but hadn't they? He eventually found a group of survivors huddled together in the subway eventually. They'd been joined by the Enclave and those unfortunate few who'd survived the blast above ground. He handed his contract over to a bewildered officer and was put to work relieving the civilians almost as soon as his wounds were seen to. It wasn't part of his contract but he did it anyway, without complaint.

In the days that followed, things got even worse. More people died in the rains that came and his contract changed hands frequently among the officers. The survivors became restless as the situation became bleaker and soon his orders pertained to his contract yet again. It wasn't long after that that he learned his contract didn't bind him solely to the Enclave. Charon lay on the cement of one of the tunnels with a hole in his leg and the ragged man's gun in his face, watching as the stranger's eyes roamed over the frayed piece of paper he'd found on the officer and sneered. Charon masked his panic and confusion as the need to protect and obey shifted from the old employer to the new.

"That's interesting, isn't it, you poor fucker," the ragged man said, folding the paper and lowering his gun cautiously after glimpsing the writing on Charon's dog tags. "Finish this son of a bitch off for me." He kicked the bleeding officer. Charon couldn't hesitate. He tossed the dog tags away shortly after that. From then on, his employers were replaced frequently, either dying in spite of his best efforts or selling the protection of an ex-soldier for food or water. And people paid for protection. In the chaos that ruled after the bombs, it was amazing anyone survived.

He first noticed the change when his skin grew dry and flakey and even with the painful sores that formed he remained unconvinced that anything drastic was happening. But the rot spread over his flesh in a matter of months, making most of his hair fall out, destroying his voice, and, finally, making his nose and ears melt off gradually. His employer eventually followed, her decay taking closer to a year. She cried when her hair fell out and as the skin fell off, believing she was going to die and berating him for it even though he had nothing to do with the radiation. But it didn't kill either of them. That employer died of an attack by an animal – grotesque, huge, and unidentifiable. And when people came streaming back out of the Vaults, Charon found he was no older at sixty than he had been at forty.

Nor at a hundred or a hundred and forty – when he finally did realize that much time had passed. The Wasteland settled into a state of perpetual decay, much like the ghouls who had been born along with it. Settlements cropped up but remained always on the brink of collapse. With the land dead, there was no way to move forward and little changed as time wore on, days dragged and blended until he honestly had trouble differentiating between two months and two years. The time was a blur. Early on, he'd acquired a combat shotgun. It was standard fare and banged up, but he got it working and it occupied his time when he wasn't fighting. He tinkered with it until it suited his needs and his style; it was something he formed of himself. Sure, it was turned toward his employers' purposes, but it was solely his and defined his survival and, often, that of his employers.

Despite the initial surprise at the savagery that seized the survivors, he didn't mind the constant fighting. His employers were scared and, truthfully, so was he; people weren't supposed to be this way, that's why they had to make people like him. But he didn't let on. Violence was what he'd been conditioned for, after all, and he never felt quite right outside of combat or without a gun in reach. And when his employers weren't bastards he felt alright following orders, bending the whole of his will toward the defense of another person. It put him at peace, even with every sense strained in search for signs of danger.

In his unnaturally long years, he tasted nearly every role for a fighting man in the new America – with long stints guarding caravans and bars and backing up various gangs that eventually landed him in the newly realized Paradise Falls, waiting to be sold until they discovered his contract and, with carefully constructed orders, put him to work as a slaver. As a mere instrument with little control over the actions that mattered, he figured he shouldn't feel guilt or anger over his deeds, but what he did for the slavers disturbed him as much as what he'd done for the Enclave before the war.

Eventually someone coughed up enough caps to convince the slavers to part with him and he was thrown back into the Wastes. That employer turned on him one day, firing at him after a disagreement, and Charon found himself released from the contract in favor of self-defense. Despite his warnings and the fact that the stipulation was clearly stated in his contract, his employer looked shocked when Charon shot him. And in Underworld, no less. But worrying about the consequences of that could wait until he retrieved his contract. It didn't even disappoint him anymore when the dread at holding his own life in his hands came over him, but here was a chance to make sure his next employer was better than the last.

"What is going on in here?" That slimy opportunist from the Ninth Circle came through the door, gun drawn, to investigate the gunfire. His patrons cowered at the bar behind him. He looked over the body and Charon critically before swiping the paper out of his shocked hands and Charon cursed himself as he skimmed the faded writing and a sly grin spread across the mottled green mug. Goddamn, if he'd just gotten out of that room fast enough and found Winthrop, he might have worked out something agreeable. Not so with Ahzrukhal. He set his greedy eyes on his newest asset like a vulture and tucked the contract into the breast pocket of his suit. Charon scowled back at him, meeting his eyes reproachfully. The bartender shooed his customers out, snapping at all of them that the Ninth Circle was closing early, and locked the doors before turning back to Charon and pulling out the contract to give it a closer look. He waved at one of the stools, saying, "Take a seat, Charon; it seems we have a lot to talk about."

* * *

Truth sat cross-legged on her bed with the big book spread across her lap, idly turning the old, glossy pages and taking her time studying the pictures after she'd finished reading the text on each page. She twirled her hair as she read, eventually managing to pull it out of its messy bun to fall in an orange cascade around her face.

"Truth?" her father's voice called to her from outside the room. She'd thought he was still at the clinic.

"In here."

She glanced up to smile at him when he came in, reaching up to adjust her glasses. "Oh, so you are." Her dad sat on the bed with her and peered at what she was reading: an anatomy textbook she'd snuck out of his room. Truth blushed, caught, but he didn't say anything. "Shouldn't you be in the kitchen with Amata today?"

"I get to go early if I bring in radroach meat," she answered simply, then glanced sideways at him guiltily. "…Um, but that's a secret. Everyone thinks it's ham."

"I won't tell," James laughed and assured her, patting her back. "So Amata's doing all that work herself?"

"No, she only had to stay a little longer," Truth told him. Then he wanted to know why she was holed up in here reading one of his textbooks instead of off with Amata or the other kids. "They're getting mean; even Wally's joined up with Butch. I just wanted to be alone, and I like the pictures. I wanna be a doctor like you, so I have to start studying anyway."

"You want to be a doctor?" James smiled. Truth nodded and turned the page, revealing an illustration of human musculature. It was beautiful, she thought; the human body was fascinating once you got under the skin to how it worked. And it was just interesting to look at, to see the structures underneath the skin that, really, defined a person, that gave her and her dad broad cheekbones but made her face more square and her chin more pointed. Bones and muscle were things she wouldn't mind working with the rest of her life. She didn't always get along with people but she wouldn't mind fixing them up. She already spent time with her dad in the clinic, when he would let her. Whenever someone came in he made her leave, and he never let her watch surgery no matter how much she begged and reminded him that they'd be asleep anyway. "Looks like you really are my daughter," he joked and hugged her with one arm. "Don't stress out and study too hard though. If the G.O.A.T. tells you to go be the Vault's new physician, there'll be time to learn everything then."

So she didn't stress about it, but she also didn't stop studying. Two years later she stood anxiously over Mr. Brotch's desk, her heart beating a mile a minute and blood still dribbling out her nose. Butch was whooping and talking excitedly about his future as, not a hairdresser, but a barber. He seemed to have forgotten his fat lip. The fight was long behind for now, the future loomed ahead.

"…Vault loyalty inspector?" Mr. Brotch was saying. He sounded as surprised to hear the words leaving his mouth as she was. "I thought that had been phased out decades ago."

Truth blanched. Loyalty inspector? Meaning working closely with that asshole who ran the Vault to spy on her neighbors to meet his paranoia-filled needs. He hated her; it was obvious even if the reason wasn't. Working for him would be awful. And it wouldn't let her work with her dad or, lamentably, Jonas. The G.O.A.T. had to be wrong, somehow. She felt her future slipping quickly away. "That can't be right."

Mr. Botch pointed out that the results of the test didn't actually matter and offered to change hers. She didn't answer him immediately, though she felt she should've. Loyalty inspector was all wrong, after all. If there was one disloyal person in the Vault, it was Truth. She'd have been willing to lead a revolt against the Overseer by now except it was hard to lead a group of zero. That, and there was no one better to step into the role of Overseer. Of course, as loyalty inspector, she would know if anything seditious was going on, and she could collaborate with the transgressors right under the Overseer's nose. She could stir up changes that needed to happen from behind the scenes! Or, if that didn't happen, she could maneuver from there to become Overseer after him. She wasn't power-hungry but… no one else seemed to see what was wrong with the Vault, with his leadership. She did though, and she'd do something about it. She'd do away with loyalty inspectors, first of all. But for now…

"I think I'll stick with the test results, Mr. Brotch. Thanks though." That was it; she gave up her dream of being a doctor and forced a smile. "The G.O.A.T. must know something I don't." Her teacher looked bemused as she wiped blood off her lip and left. She would hate it but it was for the best and, ultimately, the Vault would thank her.

* * *

A pistol and a baseball bat.

The words hung in her mind, repeating furiously, hopelessly as she stared out at the Wasteland. Her vision was still mostly obscured by spots and the harsh, natural light hurt her eyes and made them water. But from what she could see of the Wasteland, it was huge. The ground just went on until it met the sky and kept going. It never stopped. Her father could be anywhere out here. The Vault was sealed shut behind her. And all she had was a pistol, a baseball bat, two stimpaks she'd stolen from the Clinic on her way out, and thirty-seven bullets. And the bent but wearable glasses in her pocket and the clothes on her back, those counted for something she supposed. She could already feel her pale, uncovered skin burning in the light.

Overwhelmed by the events of the last few hours and the situation she found herself in suddenly – abandoned by her father, run out of the Vault in a bloody chase, and utterly alone and confused – she sat down on a rock and dropped her head into her arms to cry. She'd been right about the Overseer; he was just as crazed and paranoid as she always thought. Enough to kill Jonas in cold blood and enough to come after her, too.

That at least made _sense_. She should have seen this coming; it was her job and James was her father. Of course he'd think she'd been in on it. But she hadn't been in on it and she hadn't seen it coming, otherwise she would have been gone with her dad and avoided the whole mess altogether. It hurt that such an important project had been kept from her; he had to have known she would have loved to help.

It occurred to her after some time that she didn't have any water and crying would only dehydrate her faster. She sniffed and forced herself to stop, wiping her running nose on the sleeve of Butch's jacket and brushing away tears. He was pathetic, he hadn't deserved that jacket. Off in the distance, down the incline of stone, structures rose out of the ground that didn't match the flat monotony of the land around them. Buildings? she wondered. She'd read about them: structures like the Vault but above ground. That meant people, and they might've seen her dad. She could hope. She started down the incline, slipping and scrabbling on rocks she had to climb over and reaching the broken asphalt road below with a few new scrapes.

Aside from one very scared and unhealthy looking woman, the cluster of buildings was devoid of people or of anything; there weren't even animals or radroaches wandering among the collapsed structures. She picked through the rubble as she went, looking for useful things and finding very little except empty bottles, empty cans, warped metal, and broken wood. She did find a few bottle caps in an old trashcan and pocketed them, grateful that she'd run into the woman, else she would have had no idea that these pieces of garbage passed as currency out here.

The sun beat down on her as she made her way in the direction the woman had told her to go to find the nearest settlement. Her dad would probably have had to go there, there was nothing else around and nowhere to get food or water. Of course, he'd probably left the Vault prepared. Truth resisted the urge to wet her lips with her tongue and wiped the sweat from her brow. She was already parched and had half a mind to return to the woman's house and beg for water. On her first visit, she'd been shooed out almost as soon as she'd arrived.

She stopped as the road diverged and consulted the map on her Pip-boy – a feature she'd never seen the purpose of because the Vault was small and she knew every corner of it by her tenth birthday. She couldn't make any sense of the chart. Looking around, she spotted a group of five people down one road, all dressed in bits of metal and mish-mashed fabric. She watched them carefully and considered whether to risk approaching them for help. Before she had a moment to decide, they spotted her and suddenly the whole group was running at her, screaming, weapons raised. Truth fumbled for the pistol and fired a few shots, the kickback jolting her arms back into her shoulders violently.

One fell on the ground, clutching her leg and howling. Another stumbled and kept running. They got closer and Truth turned and ran, panic sending her in the opposite direction. She heard shots fire but felt nothing. There was cursing and footsteps right behind her and one of them grabbed her jacket and flung her, screaming, to the ground. He held her there by the front of her jumpsuit as she kicked at him and called for help she knew didn't exist. His arm raised, his hand griping a filthy tire iron, and in a moment of desperation she brought the pistol up to his chin before he could smash her head in. She shut her mouth tight and pulled the trigger, watched his body jerk and collapse on top of her as she tried to scramble to her feet.

The three still standing bore down on her and she fired at them as she backed away, aiming clumsily with the heavy handgun. All of her practice had been on a toy shotgun, but they weren't giving her time to adjust. A few of her shots did hit and two of her attackers hit the ground. Only one didn't get up again. Another closed in and got close enough to bash Truth in the head with a length of pipe. She stumbled, her vision blurring against the impact and dull, sickening pain filling her skull. This was nothing like her fights with the Tunnel Snakes, where they'd back off once there were enough bloody noses and black eyes to go around. That was… that was kid stuff. These strangers meant to kill her. She beat back against the onslaught, failing to deflect the blows that bruised her skin and bones.

It was a moment before she realized, again, that she was holding a gun and shot the woman. The beating stopped and she fell and Truth waited until the last of them was nearly on her before firing again. He, too, fell away and she stood in the midst of them, all either dead or dying, with her jumpsuit spattered with blood. So this was life outside the Vault: kill or be killed. With a churn of her stomach, Truth found she was adapting, even if she was shaking violently in the aftermath. Her head throbbed and she touched the place she'd been hit. Her hand came away with blood. It didn't seem awful, though. She was still conscious at any rate, she told herself.

The pistol went away and she picked up the bat she'd dropped when she ran. On a dismayed thought, she pulled her glasses from her pocket. They'd been smashed when she fell and were definitely useless now. Not that she had any great, immediate need for them; reading her Pip-boy by holding her arm as far from her as possible was a habit by now. Still, it was a disappointing loss on top of everything else that had been taken from her that day. Unwilling to simply toss them away, Truth returned the broken lenses to her pocket and started to walk away from the scene of the fight, only moments later realizing that her attackers might have had things she could use.

She trotted back and rifled through their clothes, throwing everything, even the awful looking syringes and pieces of clothes that didn't look too dirty, into one of their bags and slinging it over her shoulder. She could sell what she didn't need and she could use the money. One of them had a grimy, half-filled bottle of water and she stared at it for a few minutes before wiping the neck off on her jacket and taking a drink. The silty, dirt-flavored water hit her tongue and she sputtered, pursing her lips tight to keep from spitting it out. This was the only water she had after all. Forcing herself to swallow, she shuddered and tried not to throw up. There was a scuffling near her as she recapped the bottle.

Truth looked around fearfully and dropped the bottle, yelping as one of her fallen attackers threw themselves at her. Without thinking, Truth swung the bat in her hand and it connected hard with the woman's side. She doubled over but didn't fall or back down. Her leg was wounded and bleeding and Truth realized it was the first woman she'd shot. Because she hadn't gotten back up, Truth had assumed she was no longer a threat. So much for that. The woman lunged at her again, her eyes wild, screaming crude profanities and threats. Truth swung again, like she was trying for that home run she never got, and watched in fascinated horror as the bat caught the Wasteland woman's neck and she crumpled into the wood and was thrown and toppled a few feet away. She stood over the woman on the ground, bat raised over her head ready to swing if the woman tried another attack. Her heart was pounding again and she panted. But there was no movement. A closer look revealed that her neck and shoulder were twisted and crushed under the blood. Truth lowered her bat and noticed some of the blood smeared there. It was self-defense, she told herself. Reflex and self-defense. Not a day ago the worst thing she'd ever done was shoot Wally Mack in the leg with her BB gun. On accident, of course.

Shakily, she knelt down and tried to wipe the blood off her bat on the dead woman's clothes but it only smeared further. With an exasperated sigh, she picked up the water she'd dropped and passed it into her new bag, pausing when her Pip-boy ticked suddenly as the water neared it. Perplexed, she investigated the noise and found a radiation reading had appeared. She passed the bottle by her wrist again and watched the Geiger counter spit a warning back at her. "Well… shoot," she cursed and shoved the water into storage anyway. She could deal with radiation poisoning later as long as she kept herself hydrated now.

After taking all of what might be useful off the bodies, this time keeping an eye on the area around her so she wouldn't be surprised a second time, she consulted her Pip-boy again and managed to figure out the map well enough to follow a dirt path away from the cluster of collapsed buildings until the high metal walls of Megaton loomed over her, still radiating heat in the dying light. The sunset had startled her, as the light never faded in the Vault and now she suddenly found herself almost in the dark. At least she'd found the settlement before she could no longer see. A robot admitted her through the gates and inside Megaton climbed the sloping floor of the city on stilts with rickety metal buildings stacked on top of one another. The precarious architecture didn't seem to bother the people milling about, all covered in grime to some great degree and coarsely dressed. The gate closed behind her, shutting out the Wasteland and making her feel a little more secure than she had since the Vault sealed shut after her. At least she was surrounded by walls now, rather than faced with endless land in every direction.

She touched her bruised head again. It throbbed painfully, making it difficult to take in the confusing sight of Megaton, but the blood had started to dry. Truth didn't think she had a concussion, not a serious one anyway, though she was exhausted and would have liked nothing more than to collapse there by the gate and fall asleep. But she couldn't, not yet anyway. Now that she was safe she could look for somebody here to help patch her up. After that she could start asking around town for her dad.


	2. Settler

**Beta by and lots of thanks to ArticulateZ. And thanks to whoever takes the time to read, I'd like to see what you think****!**

* * *

He wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. Or, not anywhere she could afford to know about. The sleazy guy running Megaton's main bar was the only one in Megaton or the surrounding area who seemed to know what had become of her dad, and he wanted hefty payment for that information. He also wanted hefty payment for renting her a bed each night. The Wasteland was not a generous and hospitable place.

It occurred to her that she could easily get into his terminal and see if the information was there; it wouldn't be a problem for her. But there were always people around and the people of the Wasteland were territorial and distrustful of strangers. She wouldn't stand a chance if any of them caught her.

Instead, Truth quickly found she was in debt, and it was lucky that many nights she wasn't in town to need a bed or she might've ended up cleaning counters with Gob. The unnervingly chipper and eclectic woman running the town's supply store, Moira, managed to rope her into helping with her hazardous research, which generally meant trips into the Wasteland that spanned days. She was happy to help, of course, but Moira's assignments always went much worse than Moira said they would. Scavenging an old grocery almost got her torn apart by raiders, trekking through Minefield had the added complication of cowering behind the rubble while everything around her exploded and bullets whizzed too close to her from God-knows-where.

It was when the woman definitively asked for her to get hurt or sick that Truth began to feel the most comfortable; at least she knew how much those assignments would screw her over beforehand. And she could get Moira to help her out a little more with those ones. When Moira wanted to study injuries and crippled limbs, Truth stowed her assault rifle behind the shop's counter and climbed over the railing outside. Looking down, her stomach twisted and she clenched the rail. It was a long drop. Bone-crushingly long. She glanced over her shoulder at Moira watching from the door and looking pleasantly surprised at her cooperation. "Watch me, okay?" Truth urged her nervously. "If I don't get up you need to come help me."

"Of course!" Moira agreed, "I'll be right here, ready to fix you right back up again!"

Truth nodded and looked down again, groaning, "Oh, my dad would kill me if he knew..." But it was for a good cause and it was better than going out and getting shot again. So she took a deep breath and let go, regretting it when she hit the ground a second later and felt the bones in her legs crack. There was blood everywhere, on her legs and hands and face, and she couldn't tell if she was screaming at the pain or not. Moira leaned over the rail and called down to her, asking hopefully if anything was broken. After a few very long moments Truth managed to raise her arm and give Moira a thumbs-up before starting to drag herself back up the ramp to let herself be inspected.

She didn't just do work for Moira, either. Walter paid her for any scrap metal she found while she was out and Lucy West sent her north with a letter for her brother. That had gone about as well as any of Moira's tasks but considering she'd managed to retrieve Ian and convince the family to protect Arefu without getting cannibalized – by the "vampires" or the ghouls – the little trip had gone pretty well.

While recovering between excursions, she spent most of her time with Moira at Craterside Supply. Moira was, admittedly, good at putting things back together and while Truth was helping her, she managed to fix the broken glasses so Truth could read without struggling to keep the pages far enough from her face that the words fell into focus. She spent her recovery time poring over the old books she'd found before she could bring herself to sell them to pay back Moriarty and doing research of her own. Moira was delighted to help as she entrenched herself in a study of explosives and, later, when she thought it might be possible to alter Moira's molerat "repellant" and pretty soon Truth didn't need to rent a bed at Moriarty's, instead being allowed to curl up on Moira's couch at night. Her debt stopped growing and she finally started to make progress paying it off with the scavenged clothes, weapons, and chems she sold.

Unless she had a handful of caps after that, Truth avoided Moriarty's until late, after Moriarty had gone to bed so he couldn't harass her for the money or berate Gob for chatting with her. He'd shocked her the first time she walked into the bar and seen him cleaning glasses at the counter, his skin discolored and rotting on his bones. She'd stood with mouth agape, staring at him, befuddled and wondering if the medicine Doc Church had given her was having adverse effects, until he snapped at her for being rude. But she hadn't known about ghouls before then. He was nice enough to educate her and she quickly began to see him as a friend despite that they'd gotten off on the wrong foot. She'd met a few more ghouls out in the Wastes since then and quickly and frighteningly learned that not all of them were as sweet as Gob. Most were bitter; some thought she looked delicious. Truth found them all fascinating, scientifically and aesthetically.

Looking too curious was rude, though, and Truth made a huge effort to not get caught staring at the exposed musculature and veins under the cracked and flaking skin as he washed dishes and she sipped Nuka-Cola. She wondered what caused the color change in some ghouls, whether it was the radiation or a bacteria or something else entirely. Gob didn't have any more answers for her but that didn't give them less to talk about. They swapped stories, Gob filling her in on incidents with the patrons through the years and Truth recounting the dangers of associating too much with Moira. It was a good time and it helped take her mind off of the fact that in the growing time since leaving the Vault, she hadn't gotten any closer to finding her dad when they laughed quietly or comforted each other until after closing.

Truth did have to admit that she liked working with Moira. She was brilliant, all things considered, and Truth was, like her father, a doctor and scientist after all. Spying on her friends and neighbors hadn't gotten rid of that. The altered repellant went through a number of iterations, all tested by Truth herself. She wanted it to affect more than just the molerats and her testing reflected that. With each faulty recipe, she dragged herself back to Megaton bleeding from encounters with any animals she could find. It affected each species a little differently and the adjustments took work. If it placated or repelled molerats and dogs, it stank of trespasser to yao guai; if the yao guai were content to nuzzle and let her go on her way, the molerats frenzied at the scent of her. But eventually they got it. A salve, the scent of which convinced most of the mutated mammals that she was part of their pack, causing many to treat her like she was one of their young as a result. The concoction seeped into her skin, became more potent with her sweat, and seemed to work for days. It had no effect on insects but Truth counted it an extreme success.

The investigation into Megaton's very own atomic bomb took a little longer but by the time Moira had her preparing to travel all the way to Rivet City to learn about the settlement, Truth figured that out too. She went down to the pool the bomb rested in when the area wasn't too busy, even though no one who saw her tinkering with the thing would be able to complain and attack her if she screwed up. Her hands shook and she took her time, terrified she'd make a mistake and give that creep Burke the explosion he'd been looking for. A few hours passed anxiously but finally she was done and melted away from the dead bomb carefully.

She was still pale and shaky when she found Simms and told him. He was stunned into silence for a moment before clasping her arms. "You did it," he asked, "you really did it? Well, I can't say I was expecting that." Truth laughed nervously and didn't mention that she hadn't been too sure either. Simms led her back to his house and counted out the caps he'd offered her to disarm the bomb, surprised but not disappointed about parting with them. He pressed a key into her hand as well and she looked up at him, puzzled. "I think it's only fair to go ahead and consider you a citizen of Megaton after this; you've ensured we'll be sticking around. And you've been here a while, I know you've been living with Moira and you aren't going to 'cause trouble."

Truth nodded dumbly and thanked him dumbly a few times before he showed her which house her key was to and left her there with a robot butler and more space than she'd ever had to herself in her life. Looking around briefly, Truth ended up on the second floor, sitting on the bed in one of the rooms, absolutely stunned. She hadn't come to Megaton looking for a home, she'd come looking for her father. In all this time, finding a new place to settle and belong in the Wasteland hadn't even occurred to her, and here it was being handed right to her. A place to get some privacy and store the things she didn't want to sell. No more bumming on Moira's couch and feeling like she was in the way. Truth sighed in awe and lay back on the bed, taking it all in. There was room here, too, for her dad to join her once she found him and they'd finished what he was working on. This was wonderful.

A little while later, she got up and counted out her caps. The five hundred from Simms would finish paying off her debt and leave her enough to learn where her father had gone. She ran to Moriarty's and cornered him in the back room with the money, demanding answers, nervous that he'd try to raise the price yet again. But he didn't. After counting up the money and seeing that she'd really paid him back, he told her about Galaxy News Radio and how James had left Megaton almost as soon as he'd learned about it, presumably in search of the studio. Moriarty must have been feeling generous because he didn't charge her extra before telling her where the studio was either.

As soon as the coordinates were in her Pip-boy, Truth was out the door with a broad grin at Gob as she went. She went straight to Moira's and started gathering her things. "I can't go to Rivet City just yet," she apologized in her hurry, "Moriarty says my dad went to GNR. I gotta follow him. And my things…" She stopped, realizing it'd be dark soon and she still had a lot to do. The Wasteland was even more dangerous at night so she wouldn't leave until morning. Truth forced herself to slow down as she packed her belongings into her bag. "Simms is letting me live in one of the houses, so I can get my stuff out of your way and keep it there."

Moira was ecstatic and helped her carry what little she had to the house so she could see it, gabbing about furnishings the entire time. Truth nodded distractedly, only half listening, and dumped everything out of her bag, making sure it was filled with food, water, medicine, and ammunition instead of the clothes and books she'd had stuffed in it recently. Moira helped her pack and ran back to her shop to fetch maps to help Truth plot out her path. It was helpful and Truth knew her well enough by now to know what advice to disregard. "Ooh, and watch out for Supermutants," Moira told her. "You know, I don't really know how you're supposed to deal with them. Maybe you could take notes while you're out there! But be careful, I wouldn't want you getting hurt."

Truth promised she would if she could and by the time Moira went home, she was packed and ready to leave first thing in the morning. Before sleeping in her new bed, she went back to Moriarty's and told Gob that she was heading to D.C. and would be gone for a while.

"Hey, I used to live out there," he said, his face pulled between a smile and a grimace. "Before, you know, ending up here. Be careful there, smoothskin. It ain't pretty."

Truth swirled the Nuka-Cola she'd brought with her in the bottle and nodded, biting her lip. She'd decided she didn't like the taste of alcohol or the way it made her head feel muggy. Plus, there were rumors about Moriarty's still. She had to go to D.C., of course, if she wanted to stand any chance of finding her dad. Nothing was going to change that, even if these warnings did make her think twice. "I will," she promised him, smiling.


	3. Problem Solving

Truth shrieked and ducked behind some rocks, beating wildly at the flames licking up her pant-leg. They smothered out, leaving her clothes singed. She sighed shakily and collapsed against the wall, peeling back the cloth she'd wrapped protectively around her hands to suck on her burned fingers in the hazy half-light. The air was thickly hot and she panted as she tried to breathe it in. The guardians were harder to kill than the rest of the ants infesting Grayditch, and it was already hard enough to shoot straight while being lit on fire. Her clothes were torn all over and she was bleeding and blistered and burned after her shots missed and the ants had a chance to get close enough to bite and scratch at her while she beat them away with the butt of her rifle. She'd thought Brian was exaggerating when he stopped her on the road, shouting about monsters. Everything outside the Vault was monstrous so she'd thought the term obsolete. She was wrong.

The cause she'd found behind the fire-breathing ants was a monster too. Or, rather, a reckless idiot. Truth hadn't happened by to help until all of Grayditch had been roasted except for one Brian Wilkes. She'd turned aside from her search for her father without a second thought and was glad she had when she learned what had happened. It made her furious. Perhaps she could've forgiven Doctor Lesko his failed experiments had he any regard or regret for the people they'd killed. But he didn't, so she had no approval for the scientist, well-meaning though he was. Moreso because he couldn't fix his own mistakes; she was the one scuffling down this rank tunnel, righting his wrong.

There was a skittering just past her hiding place. She tensed again and reached for the knife she'd taken to carrying on her hip. Holding it at ready, she pressed herself further into her little corner until the warm rock dug at her back, hoping the bug's antennae didn't detect her. The giant ant crawled into view and paused, feeling at the air tainted with her scent. Before it could figure out where she was, Truth threw herself on top of it and drove the knife through the hard exoskeleton. The insect jerked and flailed, trying to turn around to get at her with its mandibles or legs in defense. Fire filled the small space around them and Truth clung to the ant, pressing her face into its body to protect herself and stabbing it a few more times until it was still. The fire burned out and she smothered the flames that had fallen on her clothes before getting up again.

That was her pattern as she made her way to the queen's nesting chamber as Lesko had instructed: stamp out insects, put out fires, get up and repeat. By the time she did reach the chamber, the fabric of her clothing was in singed tatters and much of her skin was blistered and bleeding from the burns. She'd bandaged what she could and Gob's gift of stimpaks was holding her together, if only barely. She'd insisted on paying for them but he'd still discounted them even more than he usually did for her, despite the risk of Moriarty's temper. It was turning out to be a very fortunate thing for her; she'd have to remember to find a gift to bring back to him as thanks.

She surveyed the chamber from a bend in the path, smoothing her sweat-drenched hair out of her eyes. With the guards dealt with, all that remained was the queen. Truth stared. In the middle of the chamber, with the half-eaten and charred carcasses of various creatures strewn around her, was the queen, huge, her body filling the cavern. She probably couldn't move easily under so much weight and bulk. It was no wonder she needed five guards. Truth watched for a while, weighing her options, then snuck around to peer at the queen from behind the rock formations dripping from the ceiling to the floor. Shakily, she retrieved one of the grenades she'd found, yanked out the pin, rolled the grenade under the queen's bloated belly, and ran. The explosion resonated out of the chamber and shook the tunnels, knocking a stunned and deafened Truth to the ground where sharp pieces of rock fell on her from the ceiling.

It was a few minutes before she could reorient and pull herself into a sitting position. Everything wobbled as she brushed the dirt off her and in the thick silence she couldn't tell if her hearing was returning or not. She groaned and it came back to her muffled and distorted.

She dragged herself back to the chamber, crawling most of the way. Parts of the tunnel had collapsed, she realized with a dull terror, and she had to navigate the rubble. The whole tunnel might have collapsed and crushed her or trapped her there. Using explosives underground was probably something to be avoided; she'd gotten lucky this time.

The queen was no more; Truth could hardly find her in the destruction, only barely recognizable parts. She did manage to find Lesko's terminal, and in good enough shape for her to activate the inhibitor pulse and destroy the mutagen. Those fire-breathing menaces wouldn't be taking any more victims and there would be no good in allowing Lesko to continue his experiments, even if he did eventually manage to shrink the ants.

He was furious when she told him and yelled about all of his work that she'd just put to waste while she sat slumped against a wall in his lab, cleaning her wounds, hissing in pain and scowling. He sounded like he had a bad cold and with her already annoyed, the nasally voice grated at her ears. "It's for the best," she told him, angrily. He scoffed indignantly and started to tell her she didn't have the knowledge to make such a call, as she wasn't the expert here. "Your experiments are only going to keep killing people. The mutagen isn't reliable. What's going to happen before you figure out how to make them smaller? Exoskeletons made of iron? Tentacles? That isn't exactly putting evolution back on track or helping people out."

He glared down at her and she faltered. Perhaps she'd been wrong. If he succeeded his experiments would benefit the Wasteland. He might've eliminated one of the many threats that plagued Wastelanders and if she hadn't taken away that chance entirely, she'd definitely put an enormous obstacle in the way. His flagrant disregard for the lives he claimed to be trying to save disturbed and angered her, and she felt that with his attitude, he'd only manage to keep getting people killed with his work. She'd done the right thing.

Lesko pursed his lips. "Perhaps you're right," he sighed dejectedly.

Truth nodded quickly and asked when she could have her reward. "Look at me!" she said when he objected and paused for a moment so he could glance over her seared body. "Aren't you glad you didn't end up like this? Or worse?"

"Alright, alright, I suppose your help is deserving of compensation," he griped and injected her with the serum he assured would heighten her senses and make her, somehow, more flame resistant. It'd have been kind of him to endow her with that before sending her into the blaze but he'd refused earlier. He had offered to make her stronger instead but she declined. She had bulked up since leaving the Vault but even with more muscle than she'd ever had in her life she didn't cut an imposing figure. That was just as well. She'd never been strong and although she fought a lot, brute force had never been her advantage. Precision was her forte. She could give a decent wallop but Butch and his buddies always hit harder. A lot harder. Her attacks hit squarely. So she'd never learned to rely on strength, but heightened senses would help keep her alive. She hoped.

Doctor Lesko grumbled and turned his back on her to get back to work and figure out what he would do now that his queen was dead. Truth watched him wearily, struck with a sudden loneliness as he went about the small laboratory in his white lab coat. It reminded her of watching her father work in the clinic, the white coat setting him further apart from the rest of the Vault dwellers. This man was nothing like her father. He shamed the uniform of doctor and scientist with his grandiose schemes and lack of concern or attention to quality of work. He was a menace, too, responsible for the death of an entire town and he didn't even care. He didn't deserve the status that came with that coat.

Truth retrieved her rifle slowly, quietly, and reloaded with careful, unnoticed movements. Her eyes were trained on the scientist as she snapped the magazine back into place and got to her feet as if she were going to leave. She didn't. Halfway to the door she stopped, having enough room to get a good angle, and raised the gun to her shoulder, caught him in the sights with his back still turned. She tensed to keep from shaking, her heart was pounding. He was a bad man, an illness. He was so involved in what he was doing that he didn't hear her pump the chamber. Hadn't she always wanted to be a doctor?

She fired and the sound resonated off the close walls. Doctor Lesko yelled in surprise and pain as he collapsed, hitting the counter and then the floor helplessly. He managed to twist and look on her fury filled face in bewilderment and terror and gurgled something at her questioningly. Truth fired twice more. That would do it. He didn't last more than a few seconds after her third shot. Hopefully that meant his experiments wouldn't be hurting any more people.

She put the safety on and slung the gun over her back before hurrying to get the clothes off of him before too much blood soaked into them. The coat she wanted for sentimental reasons, because it reminded her of her dad and because she'd always dreamed of wearing her own. The rest of his clothes were just a practicality now that what she'd had on was in tatters. The fabric scratched at her burned skin but it would do for the time being. The lab coat suited her, from what she could tell. She felt professional, if such a term could be used anymore. Before leaving, she looked back over all of his equipment that would go to waste without him and stuffed everything she could carry into her pack, carefully avoiding looking at Lesko's body on the floor. Weighed down by her new prizes, she hauled herself out of the subway to face the open sky and light of day yet again.

* * *

Three Dog was talking about the attacks on Arefu and the Vault kid who'd put a stop to them. Charon had to grant that was something new. Most of it was probably bullshit. He didn't think there was anyone left claiming to be a Vault dweller – the Vaults were empty and dead. But it was new, a break from news on the fighting between Supermutants and the Brotherhood of Steel in D.C., Underworld could see how _that_ was going, and for now it didn't concern them. They had more immediate problems to deal with. The rattling in the vents was a constant reminder at the back of their minds that their home was crumbling around their ears. Trade was scant and barely brought in the basics of what Underworld needed to survive. Quinn's return from the Wasteland always heralded mixed relief and disappointment among the ghouls. Their store of essentials was replenished and their only tie to the rest of the world made it back alive, but there was always something important he hadn't been able to get a hold of.

It wasn't another retelling of one of Herbert Daring Dashwood's adventures, either. Those were always a sour reminder that he'd been in this corner watching the bar when Dashwood and Argyle would stay in Underworld and tell the stories themselves, right after they happened. Dashwood was old now, cozied up in Tenpenny Tower like the legend he was. No one knew what had become of Argyle.

The Ninth Circle was closed for the night but Ahzrukhal almost always kept the radio playing softly during waking hours. Charon sat at the table in his corner with his shotgun dismantled and laid out on the flat surface while he carefully cleaned each piece. He could've had the whole thing clean and reassembled in a matter of seconds. Could have and didn't. Instead, he took his time, meticulously seeing that each piece of worn metal was in good condition. Weapon maintenance was the only thing he got to look forward to doing each day. Aside from throwing drunks out of the bar and taking a piss every morning, it was flat-out the only thing he got to do. No need to get it over with quickly. The chances of him actually needing the gun were extremely low and if he did need it he could have the weapon put back together and ready to fire within a moment.

He could have done this at the bar, too, where there was adequate room, rather than cram everything into a few square feet. In an effort to keep as much space between him and his employer as he could, however, Charon had quickly learned to make the disassembled gun parts fit neatly on his small table.

Ahzrukhal was still behind the bar, going over the day's sales and his inventory. They did their separate tasks without acknowledging each other, as if the other wasn't there, but were still acutely aware of each other's presence. Even when the room was locked and empty, even when the biggest danger facing him was a paper cut or the possibility of dropping his profits on his foot, Ahzrukhal didn't like Charon to leave his sight, just in case something happened. Perhaps he'd earned his paranoia. Bad men needed good bodyguards, after all, and Charon was the best for the worst. Charon was security; Ahzrukhal was purpose, as much as Charon hated him.

Ahzrukhal frowned at something he'd been writing. Watching him in his peripheral, Charon saw his employer look up at him thoughtfully. That was never good. He waited without giving any sign that he noticed Ahzrukhal's attention on him. Anxiety grew in his chest as the moment dragged on and his work on the gun became somehow more slow and deliberate. Ahzrukhal tapped his pen on the paper her had slowly, took a breath that seemed to resolve whatever thought he was having, and set the pen down, almost smiling. "Charon."

Only then did Charon turn his head to look up at his employer. "Yes." He set what he was holding on the table as well, preparing himself for an unpleasant order.

"You know Greta," he drawled and Charon nodded, setting his jaw. He knew her as well as he knew anyone in this place, that was for sure. He knew Ahzrukhal considered her competition and that that was unacceptable, especially with Quinn bringing in more food than alcohol lately. He knew what was coming next. "I want you kill her." It was an order, not a request or a statement. He'd have to do it. This had been a long time coming. Ahzrukhal put a lot of effort into seeing that every cap in Underworld came under his control. He had most of the town steeped in debt and between Charon and his growing prosperity, he'd soon be the one calling the shots in Underworld. It didn't matter that Barrows was mayor and Winthrop did all the work, Ahzrukhal knew how to get what he wanted.

Charon was furious as he began putting his shotgun back together, slowly to give himself time to think. This couldn't be done immediately. Greta wasn't friendly, even by ghoul standards, but she didn't deserve to be murdered. Carol would be devastated. That didn't matter; all that mattered was Ahzrukhal's will. "If that is what you wish," Charon answered his employer stiffly. Ahzrukhal grinned smugly. "This will not end well," he ventured.

Ahzrukhal's grin twisted into an ugly scowl. Weapons weren't meant to argue. "It will if you do it right. You know better than to walk up and blow her head off in plain sight, Charon. Or can I not expect even that much forethought from you?"

Charon took a deep breath and shrugged. "I could use a different gun, one of yours. A knife would be better. I could break her neck and avoid weapons altogether, and I could do it quickly enough that she wouldn't make a sound." Ahzrukhal was nodding impatiently, an eager gleam in his eye. "But people take note when I leave the Ninth Circle, I would not be able to get her alone without somebody noticing that I left my post and drawing the correct conclusion." Charon snapped the last piece of the gun into place and made sure the chamber was loaded. The light was going out of Ahzrukhal's eyes. He was thoughtful again, darkly so this time. "Everyone knows who I represent," Charon reminded him. Ahzrukhal had seen to that shortly after obtaining his contract and usually that understanding with Underworld's residents served him well. Now it would only get him run out of town.

"I'm well aware of that," Ahzrukhal snapped and turned away from Charon, crumpling the paper he'd been running numbers on before locking it and the caps he'd gained that day in the safe. The bodyguard hesitated in his seat, gun still in hand. "Don't do it, I'll find someone else," his employer said finally.

Relieved, Charon unloaded his shotgun and took it apart again to finish cleaning. "As you wish." Across the room, Ahzrukhal made a disapproving sound and turned up the radio before settling against the safe with his arms crossed and staring at the wall, deep in thought and disappointment. Charon was off the hook, but there were plenty of travelers he could get to do the job, if any ever came around. Charon gritted his teeth and risked speaking up again. "Forgive me, sir, but disposing of her at all is unnecessary for business. People come here to drink regardless of whether she has booze or not. The chems guarantee that most of the town is in here at least once a day, and they aren't going to leave just to buy food from Greta when they're already here."

The radio might as well have been off for all it did to pierce the still tension that fell when Charon stopped talking. He looked up and found his employer's gaze fixed on him with a burning fury. He matched it defiantly. When Ahzrukhal spoke again, it was with the quiet venom of a snake. "If you've got this figured out, perhaps you should open your own bar. Don't tell me how to run mine. I don't remember hiring you for your business expertise or for your brains." Charon grunted and turned back to maintenance, falling obediently into his own silent thoughts. He didn't exactly remember being hired either.


	4. Business in the Capital

When the radio on her Pip-boy crackled to life in the middle of the subway, Truth was thrilled. She'd quickly taken a disliking to President Eden. Listening to his speeches on the "new America" reminded her too much of the Overseer's blinding rhetoric and she had no patience for dictators and their brainwashing. But his speeches helped her stay awake out in the Wasteland when she grew tired, between battle-sprung bouts of adrenaline. She could see why people tuned in to listen to Three Dog instead. While President Eden was spouting his propaganda and nonsensical promises, Truth had learned more about what was going on in this Wasteland by listening to Galaxy News Radio for a few days than she had in her entire time wandering around after leaving the Vault. That, and Three Dog made her laugh; he was personable even though all there was was his voice. He seemed decent, or at least the radio would have her believe that, and she was certain he'd help her out. His station quickly replaced Eden's in the long hours.

She was thrilled, too, when she recognized herself in one of his reports. Word of Arefu's troubles had reached D.C., as well as her part in stopping the attacks. The report was brief and vague and Truth figured she and the Family were the only ones who knew what had really happened down in Meresti Station.

Her chat with Three Dog, when she did finally make it through the maze of subways and past the super mutants, was less than thrilling, however. For all his talk on the air, he was not as willing to help Truth find her father as she hoped. Not without recompense, anyway. Truth was appalled.

"What happened to the 'good fight,' huh?" she snapped when he told her his terms, grimacing when her own vehemence sent stabbing pain through her ribs. She'd taken up residence on one of the studio's filthy couches after a couple of the Brotherhood knights placed her there to rest and heal. The Brotherhood's power armor protected them well enough, but the make-shift armor Truth took off raiders and mercenaries had been smashed to bits, along with many of her bones. When the stimpaks had her well enough to badger the knights about Three Dog as they walked by without being cut short by groans of pain, the disc jockey himself came down and pulled up a chair. The studio around them was cluttered; every surface was covered with food, books, and whatever gadgetry they used to run their program. The lighting was dull and white in a way that reminded Truth of the Vault. Had Three Dog not made her quickly furious, she'd have felt cozy there. She stood with the Brotherhood of Steel and defended his studio and his home from utter destruction by super mutants but that wasn't enough for the man, he wanted to send her even further into D.C.. "When someone asks me for help and I can help them I don't make them help me find my dad first, that'd be ridiculous!" Three Dog smirked at her and Truth felt her face grow red and hot in anger at the defeat she'd brought on herself.

She accused him of blackmail and of using her for selfish gains, but it was no use. He admitted to all of the above, telling her with conviction that the ends justified the means. Just because he was fighting the good fight didn't mean he had to fight clean, things didn't work that way in the Wasteland. What angered her most was that had he just asked her to fix their signal rather than holding the information about her father hostage she'd have done it gladly. Instead she cursed him all the way to the National Mall.

The way out of the subway came upon her suddenly, the stone passage filled with brilliant daylight that blinded her as she ran from a feral ghoul that had charged when her rifle ran short of rounds. Her feet caught in a pile of rubble and she stumbled and pitched forward into the chain-link gate with a loud rattling. The fence flung her back and she landed sprawled on the concrete, one hand raised to keep her gun out of harm's way and the other still clutching the bullets she'd been trying to slip into the chamber. The air punched out of her lungs and she gasped, clambering to her feet breathlessly and reloading with fumbling fingers, barely managing to cock the barrel before the ghoul was there, swiping and beating at her in its frenzy. Its jagged fingernails caught the side of her face with a dizzying smack before she kicked it away, giving herself enough room to make short work of the ghoul with her rifle.

When it was dead, she squinted back into the tunnel for more foes, wincing at the fresh sting on her cheek. There were none, and her eyes slowly adjusted to the sunlight shining down the steps from outside. She shook a couple caps out of the ghoul's rotted armor, and then kicked the corpse away from her, still bitter. When she turned to examine the outside world she found she couldn't see past the steep staircase. But she could hear. Loud, vicious super mutant voices carried to her, along with the sound of gunfire and lasers.

Truth slipped through the gate with her things and crept up the stairs to investigate. The land crammed between the old buildings was gutted and deeply scarred. Dust went up from it in clouds under the feet of super mutants and knights of the Brotherhood at battle. Without thinking, Truth fired at the super mutants on the near side of the trenches. If she could pick them off from where she was, the fighting wouldn't be so gruesome for the men in suits.

That was a dread miscalculation. The super mutants she shot at turned from the fighting to squash the stinging bloatfly that was Truth, howling their annoyance. Some she managed to kill before they got close enough to try to smash her. Others didn't and it wasn't long before she had to retreat to the buildings behind her, ducking behind rubble and massive, crumbling columns in the hopes that the giants would lose track of her. She wrenched open the first door she came to and slipped inside the building to safety. When it shut she found herself in a dark building, full of dust and quiet, the gunfire and shouting from outside only a muffled sound.

She collapsed against the door, her heart pounding painfully in her chest and neck up through her head, blurring her vision and filling her ears with a roaring drum. She panted heavily and pulled her armor away from her body to let the air cool the sweat beading under her clothing. Her leg was bleeding and her pants were badly torn. She hadn't noticed the pain until then, but as the adrenaline ebbed it spread and grew into a pulsating agony. While inspecting the injury, Truth caught sight of her Pip-boy's map display and noticed that she was in the Museum of Technology. That was worth the damage to her leg; she was safe and right where she needed to be. The Brotherhood of Steel could fight their own super mutants for all she cared.

The sound of heavy footsteps on creaky, old boards broke the peace in the museum and Truth froze, clutching at her gun.

"Who's there?" a voice boomed.

In the dark, Truth heard the cock of a gun and the huge shape of the super mutant came into view. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she saw others moving about the wreckage. She swore. Three Dog was going to get her killed.

* * *

The sound of fighting from the square never reached Underworld and the ghouls went about their dreary business. They milled about the yellowed halls and even in the Ninth Circle, where the radio was blaring and alcohol and chems had the patrons disquieted, they were little more than moths, not even decent shadows of the old world. Any resemblance any of them had to the world before the war had melted away long before.

Charon leaned against the wall in the corner and watched them. He had little interest in the talk over the bar or in the couple sharing jet at the far table and bickering their way through an argument they'd been having for the last fourteen years. Any conversations happening in the bar were the same that had been happening there year after year, for decades. Charon might've been able to recite them from memory and save the drunks the trouble by now. Underworld was too out of the way and everyone had been there too long for there to be anything new to talk about. The only excitement that ever happened in that dilapidated museum occurred when Ahzrukhal put Charon's contract to use among the drunks or some wastelander wandered in past the super mutants – which was rare enough.

Use of Charon's contract was rarely exciting either. Mostly it consisted of removing people from the bar. He'd already thrown Patchwork out today, twice. The second time was after Ahzrukhal watched two of his other patrons talk Patchwork out of an arm before having Charon remove him, sneering and saying, "I don't want him in here if he can't keep himself together." A few people snickered.

Scowling, Charon picked up the loose limb and dragged Patchwork to the door. He hated picking up after Patchwork. The fingers at the end of the severed arm were clenched in a trembling fist at the shock of being removed from their body. Even after experiencing it so many times, they still reacted with the semblance of pain, as if this was entirely unexpected. Charon wasn't in a place to blame them for being shocked; it still shocked him. It was the reflex that unnerved him, if it'd just be still like a normal severed arm he wouldn't have a problem. That was the problem with ghoul physiology – there was nothing normal about it.

"Err, wait," Patchwork muttered and tried to turn back, "my drink…"

"You've had enough." Charon shoved the arm back at him and pushed him toward the stairs outside, hoping he'd find his way to Doctor Barrows.

Now Charon was back where he belonged. At the bar, one of the customers was good and drunk as he leaned over the counter to argue with Ahzrukhal. "You been lettin' me drink 'til now…" he was saying.

"Yes," Ahzrukhal agreed and began clearing the counter in front of the angry ghoul. He grinned smugly. "And _now_ I want your tab cleared before I'll serve you another drop. Understand, Rudy?" It seemed that Rudy didn't understand and at the continued provocation of Ahzrukhal's snide words, he became more and more agitated until Ahzrukhal finally looked to the corner and met Charon's eye.

Suppressing a sigh, Charon pushed away from the wall and dragged a protesting Rudy off his barstool and toward the door.

"Charon, wait," his employer's cool voice came from behind. Charon halted and turned back to face him, keeping his face blank and a firm grip on Rudy's shirt so he couldn't slip away. He tried to ignore the shiver that went through him when Ahzrukhal looked them over with cruel eyes darkened by a genuine smile. The barkeep was definitely feeling mean today. "This man owes me money, quite a bit, actually. Remind him what happens if I'm not paid in a timely manner."

Charon nodded an acknowledgement and started to move to the second room where there was less likely to be an audience, thinking to leave the drunk some dignity, at least. But Azhrukhal called him back sharply. "Where are you going? I gave you an order, Charon." And there was the second part to it, Ahzrukhal loved an audience. People were looking up from their drinks to see what had brought the bodyguard from his post and the few who had been in the second room appeared in the doorway, curious. Charon didn't know why this particular ghoul had to be made an example of, everyone here owed Ahzrukhal money. But Rudy was easy to rile up, and he'd been in the right place at the right time. With nowhere to go, Charon hauled him up and threw a fist into his stomach.

When Rudy was bruised enough, with blood dribbling from his busted mouth, that Charon thought he'd made Ahzrukhal's point, he tried to throw him out again, but Ahzrukhal stopped him. "You're not done yet," he said, eying the two of them critically. A grumbling went through the room and someone got up from the bar and left, shaking her head.

Scowling, Charon threw his victim back against the bar and hit him again, trying to ignore the repulsion at what he was doing. Clearly this wasn't about money, or even about anyone else in the room. They all got the picture, Charon was sure even Rudy understood where his debt would get him. Now, rather than scared, they were just angry. Their grumbling became more coherent and they glared at Ahzrukhal, and at Charon even though he was just as helpless in this as Rudy and the rest of them.

As he hit Rudy in the jaw again, he recalled the conversation with Ahzrukhal a few nights past in a flash of fury and understood. Ahzrukhal hadn't set Rudy up for his customers, this was all for Charon, to repay him for daring to try to change his boss's mind. Apparently reminding Charon who held his contract meant more to Ahzrukhal than keeping paying customers in the bar. The selling had stopped the moment the beating started, and people were leaving one by one.

Rudy had tried to put up a fight and get away at first, but he'd since sunk to the ground and curled up defensively against Charon's fists. Charon hoped he wouldn't end up having to kill him, but he wouldn't put it past Ahzrukhal. He might've been able to weasel out of killing Greta, but that was only because Ahzrukhal allowed it. The possibility seemed even more likely when Charon stopped hitting a second time and held Rudy up for Ahzrukhal's inspection. Rudy played his part well, at least, promising to pay up, begging for mercy.

Ahzrukhal shook his head and Charon's stomach plummeted. In these moments, he almost wished his contract didn't have a self-defense clause to protect him from his employers, the shit they thought up to punish him was worse than any beating. And, inevitably, it involved hurting people who had nothing to do with whatever offense he'd committed. He felt like he should apologize to Rudy and his spectators.

Instead, with every punch he threw at the ghoul he imagined it was Ahzrukhal, contractless and scared, who he bruised and bloodied in rage. Apologies wouldn't keep them safe the next time Ahzrukhal told him to hurt someone, and they wouldn't appreciate the sentiment anyway.

"That's enough. Lighten up, Charon," Ahzrukhal finally snapped, badly feigning disapproval. He still had a smug smile plastered on his face.

Regardless, the order came like a breath of air. In his next motion, Charon threw Rudy out of the bar, relieved to let him go. A few ghouls got up to help him, glaring at Charon with nasty scowls as they went.

When they'd gone, Charon returned to the corner to resume his watch of the bar. There was blood on the carpet, but Ahzrukhal could clean that himself or get some other wretch to do it. Charon watched in disgust as the barkeep began to coax the few remaining customers into buying another drink, another hit. Someone oughta shoot the bastard, he reflected, clenching his jaw, feeling a pang of guilt and anger at himself for the thought. He glanced around the room quickly; just to be sure there was no danger of that actually happening. But it'd solve half the problems Underworld was facing and rid the ghouls of the biggest thorn in their side. It was a shame he was so good at his job; no one would be getting past him to kill Ahzrukhal. If they did, though, he'd give them a quick, clean death when he had to kill them, as thanks.

* * *

The voice from the sham Vault faded with a click and the museum was, gratefully, quiet again. Truth stepped gingerly around the super mutant sprawled face down on the stairs to the lobby, keeping her gun leveled at its head on the off chance it was still alive. She hunched awkwardly under the bulk of the metal relay dish strapped to her pack like a shell and limped on her wounded leg. Her pack was weighted down with everything useful she could carry from the museum and she was past done with the place.

Outside, the fighting had since died down, though Truth could see hulking shadows moving around across the trenches in the faint light of dawn. She hovered on the steps of the museum and looked out over the field in search of the Washington Monument. For a moment she feared she wouldn't know it when she saw it and it'd be Three Dog's own fault for sending someone who'd never been to D.C., but then she spotted the greying spire rising high above the rubble. She stuck close to the buildings as she moved toward it, hoping the rising sun glinting off the disk on her back wouldn't catch the super mutants' attention and make her a target.

The Brotherhood knights seemed surprised when she lumbered right up to them and asked for entry. Though she couldn't see their faces, she could feel them looking her over in amusement and confusion – she looked like a mirelurk under all the bulk, she was sure – and she bristled. When she told them she was helping Three Dog replace the disk that had been shot down, they dropped their brusque manner and opened the gate for her. One of the Brotherhood followed her inside to help.

She expected to need to climb stairs or a latter to reach the pinnacle, so when the Brotherhood knight ushered her past electronic doors, she braced herself for the long climb and looked up. It was just a small, empty room. There were some buttons on the wall, but no stairs and no ladder. "What…?" she said suspiciously, turning around in time to see the doors close after them. She scowled and turned the safety off on her gun. If this was some sort of trap, they'd be sorry. She'd made it this far, did they think they could scare her now?

"What?" the soldier chuckled, "Never ridden an elevator before?"

"What the hell is an elevator?" Truth demanded, then gasped as the floor jolted. The walls whirred and she had the sensation of being moved, though she clearly wasn't moving. She eyed the ceiling, walls, and floor for some clue as the knight muttered something under the noise about wastelanders.

It stopped as suddenly as it started and the wind rushed in to cool her face and ruffle her hair as doors rolled open again to reveal that they were now at the top of the building, with the ruins spreading out far below them. Truth stepped out of the elevator, turning around to alternate between gaping in wonder at the dizzying view and the room that had lifted her here. "Is that pre-war?" she asked.

"Yup," the knight answered. "Now let me get that relay put up. I'm supposed to be standing guard." Truth slipped her pack off and cooperatively untied the disk. When it was up and their equipment told them it was working, he left her alone at the top of the tower to rest.

She crouched beside the hole in the wall overlooking the trenches and ruins, too afraid of being thrown to the ground by the wind to stand up. The destruction continued for miles, bathed in the reds and oranges of morning that still surprised and awed her. The sight of sunrise on a leveled city might have haunted her had she been born before the war, as she understood that they use to be buildings, but to her they were nothing but landscape – a fairly new concept in itself. It was the sun that made her uneasy. A light she could only rely on half of the time, and that burned her skin to a painful pink during the time it was useful, won little of her favor.

Still, its rising and setting were prettier than anything she'd ever seen in the Vault. She wondered if her dad felt the same displacement when he emerged from the Vault. This would all be alien to him, too. Truth frowned. That didn't quite ring true. Moriarty had said her father brought her into the Vault from the outside. She didn't believe that, not for a second. Her father had her trust over that seedy asshole. He may've abandoned her but he wouldn't lie to her, she assured herself uneasily. Not about something that big. Everyone was born in the Vault; that was absolute if nothing else.

Scowling, she pushed the thought out of her mind and turned her attention from the sunrise to the battlefield it illuminated, watching the knights of the Brotherhood patrol around the base of the Washington Monument and super mutants milling about the trenches farther off. The safety was still off on her rifle and she slid her hand over the battered metal and wood to turn it back on, then left it there. The weight of the gun was comforting in her hands, even while she was safe. They were more worn than the hands she'd left the Vault with, sporting scrapes and grimy, cracked fingernails that were starting to hide that she'd lived a safe life up until a few months ago. The rifle wasn't from the Vault either; she'd taken it off a raider. Perhaps she didn't feel totally displaced out here. For the most part, she felt more at home in the Wasteland than she ever had in the Vault.


	5. The Whip

For a few days, Truth slept in the Washington Monument in relative safety. When she was rested and the Brotherhood of Steel was getting tired of having her around, she slipped back into the comfort of the subways to report back to Three Dog. He directed her to Rivet City and she was off. Already, she was two months behind her dad. Chances were that by the time she reached the city he'd be gone again. As she hurried, she griped to herself that the entire venture into D.C. could've been skipped if Moira had sent her to Rivet City sooner.

While not a shock, it was still a disappointment when she finally found Doctor Li and confirmed that her father was long gone. Truth took her directions and left behind her suggestion to stay out of it when she left Rivet City again, scowling. That didn't stop the woman's resentment and disappointment from following her to Project Purity and West from there. What had happened to Project Purity, her parents' beautiful dream?

You did, Doctor Li's voice seemed to have gotten trapped in her ears. It bounced around her head, without stopping. You did, you did, you did. You killed your mother when all she did was try to bring you into the world. You single-handedly dismantled the Wasteland's last, best hope for waters of life. The woman had corrected herself immediately but the Truth of it was out and that was why she had no mother and why they weren't all drinking clean water yet.

Growing up, she and her dad rarely talked about her mother and when they did, it was more often about the woman as she lived rather than how she died. Nonetheless, Truth had eventually managed to piece together that she died when her daughter was born, or else shortly thereafter. It was not a fact she needed reminding or confirmation of.

She tore through Project Purity and its super mutants in a fury that built up on the trek from Rivet City as she tried not to think about it. Her recklessness lead to her holing up in the bedroom she found in the basement, lying injured on the bed trying to treat the gashes torn in her sides while holding her rifle at the door that had been locked and sloppily barricaded. She listened to the holotapes she'd found as she worked, sometimes having to play them two or three times before being able to understand them through the pain and blood loss.

When she came to the one where the original title had been scribbled out and replaced with her dad's handwriting spelling out "Better Days," she hesitated. Sure enough, an unfamiliar woman's voice met her ears when she hit play. She played it over and over, mesmerized that she was hearing her mother's voice for the first time in her life. Empty scotch bottles lay about the floor of the room, knocked there when she moved the furniture. Left among the holotapes, it could be presumed they belonged to her dad. It seemed he'd holed up here, too. Funny, she'd never figured him for one to booze his way through problems – it seemed he was especially good at hiding things from her, she thought bitterly. And he had lied to her, she remembered, burning with anger. Her entire life she'd bought his lie that they were from the Vault. She'd never thought to distrust him, not until the evidence couldn't be denied anymore.

As she listened to her mom laugh, a chill went through her and she wondered if her dad blamed her, too. She couldn't stomach if he did, to have her own father resent her. Perhaps that was part of why he left her. She turned the holotape off and stowed it in her bag.

On the long walk across the Wasteland she couldn't resist playing the recording over frequently, straining her ears to listen closely, as if it might teach her something new or somehow bring her closer to the dead woman. It wouldn't, she knew. It was like how she'd read painstakingly through an old Bible as a child because her dad kept her mother's favorite verse in a frame on his bedside table. It said a lot of things, but nothing about her mom. Now she understood why that verse had been her mother's favorite, at least. Personally, she'd always liked where Jesus took a whip to the merchants in the temple. After, of course, having to ask her dad what a whip was. For some reason, that and other stories she reported liking made her dad nervous and he warned her not to try taking Vault law into her own hands. Naturally, she never told him why she actually became Loyalty Inspector.

Despite her rush to find her father she couldn't resist the lure of the empty old houses between Project Purity and Megaton. The paint had long since peeled off them and if the wood wasn't rotted it was petrified, making the once-homes into tombs and museums locked forever in the last moments before the bombs. Tombs and museums that, in two hundred years, had been desecrated by raider and wanderer alike but usually enough of the furniture remained to give an idea of how these dead people had lived. When there wasn't blood and guts strewn everywhere, Truth liked to spend time in the houses and try to imagine what it must've been like to live with so much space, where everything was cushioned and colorful pastel and the world outside was alive and safe and presumably as soft as the interior of the houses. She wondered what people did everyday as she rummaged through the kitchen and bedrooms of one house.

In a cabinet upstairs she found a crumpled up bundle of green fabric. When she picked it up it billowed into a dress, cinched and belted at the waist with a wide skirt, and for a moment Truth forgot all about killing her mom as she stared at it in awe. She glanced around and double checked that the area around the house was empty. If there was a good time to be caught unawares by raiders, naked wasn't it. Everything looked fine, so she stripped off the heavy layers of denim and leather and stepped into the dress. It took a few tries and some fumbling before she realized the zipper went in the back for some reason, or else this pre-war woman had been a flat-chested hunchback.

The lightness of the dress amazed her and she wasn't sure whether she felt naked or freer to move. She found a cracked and grimy mirror behind the bathtub and gasped when she looked at herself in it, taken aback. She certainly wouldn't be passing for one of the women on the billboards and in old books. The loose bun she kept her hair in was a matted nest, the coppery orange dulled by thick dirt and sweat, and her face was bright red under the grime and dried blood. Scabs lined one cheek and the other side of her face was still swollen around the eye and the mouth. Her legs and arms were freckling and the dust stopped in dark lines around her collar and wrists. Her eyes were red and tired. Her own father wouldn't recognize her like this.

But she liked the dress and took it with her when she stopped in Megaton and showed it to Moira when she dropped off the hasty notes she'd taken for her in Rivet City. Laughing wryly, she admitted, "I just want to wear it all the time, but it's not going to help me at all when I get shot at."

And then she saw the thoughtful look on Moira's face. "You know," the shopkeeper said, "it wouldn't be hard to attach some leather, or even some metal plates, on the inside."

That hadn't even occurred to Truth. She wasn't nearly as good at putting things together as she was at breaking them. Ask her to dissect something, jimmy a lock, or break through the security on someone's terminal and she could do so but those weren't things that needed putting back together afterwards. When her weapons or armor fell apart, she simply replaced them. Her dad had always repaired her BB gun and now Moira did repairs for her when she was in town. "Really?" she asked excitedly. "You think you could do that?"

Moira thought she could and repairs and alterations were two things Truth trusted her with so she left the dress with her. To her surprise, it was ready before she left town a couple days later.

The Wasteland welcomed her back with a hot, dry wind that pulled at her skirt and set her sweating straight from the start. By the time she'd walked for the better part of the day and found the crumbling chapel that instead of rafters had bloated corpses swinging from large, bloody hooks, she'd been warned more than once that she was walking straight into raider territory and would walk straight into their camp if she kept going. And she very nearly did, coming up on the lip of a canyon suddenly and stopping short before tumbling over the edge.

Below her, the canyon was crammed with flimsy metal shacks and dead trains. Something massive stomped around a large cage in the middle of camp. Raiders milled about the rusting structures. A small group of ragged captives were fenced in against the opposite wall. All day, the threat of raiders had her anxious, especially when she realized that her father could just as easily, or more easily, have been killed or captured rather than make it safely to Vault 112. He might be one of the captives on the canyon floor and she wouldn't know. She checked her Pip-Boy and saw that she was still headed in the right direction. This hole full of raiders was smack between her and her endpoint, her father would've come pretty close to it one way or another. Unease churned painfully in her chest. She couldn't tell if any of the captives even looked like him from the cliff. If she went to the vault and found he'd never made it there it might be too late to return and help him if he'd ended up here. Either way, the people in the cage needed help whether they were her dad or not.

Truth made sure her gun was loaded and surveyed the camp. It would be difficult to get to the pen unnoticed but she was in a good position up here. Lying on her belly, she crawled to the very edge of the cliff, getting hot dirt under her clothes, and fixed one of the lookouts in her sights. There was an eruption of activity at the first gunshot and Truth picked people off in the resulting fray, firing and reloading mechanically as the raiders skittered about in confusion far below her.

A few spotted her and began to point, with guns and fingers, and bullets ricocheted off the rocks she was flattened against. A group of them ran for the entrance of the canyon, presumably to come after her, and Truth fired a few shots at them before scrambling down the rocks to the canyon floor. She crossed the space to the pen quickly and unseen while everyone still thought she was on the cliffs.

The pen held two men and a teenager who Truth nearly mistook for a boy. Her scalp and part of her face shone and blistered with burns and her shirt was scorched. The men, though not appearing to have been set on fire, sported ghastly cuts, like someone had taken knives to them until they got bored and threw them back in their cage. A short, stocky man ran up to the gate and Truth noticed he seemed to hobble and when she looked down at his legs she found old nails sticking out of his shins. Truth faltered, taking in their injuries with horror, feeling an unaccustomed rush of nausea. She'd never seen raiders' victims while they were still alive, it was worse than finding the corpses. He clung to the fence to hold himself up and begged her to help them.

"I am, I am," she assured him, shaking off her shock. She pulled a bobby pin out of her hair and worked to get the lock open. "Have any of you seen a man named James?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder, as much to see what was going on as to avoid looking at the mangled prisoners for a moment. The raiders were on the ridge now, but hopefully they hadn't spotted her behind the train and the metal ramp sloping back up the cliffs. "He's middle aged, has one of these," she went on, pointing at her Pip-Boy. She assumed he did, anyway, unless it had been taken from him but it was the only thing she could think of to identify him anymore. She hardly recognized herself, it was impossible to imagine what he might look like.

None of them had seen him and Truth wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. It was a big camp and if he'd ended up here, it might've been ages ago. The thought that she might find him looking like these people, or worse, almost made her sick. She scowled at the lock that would not open and balked when her bobby pin broke. Swearing and growling with frustration, she dug the metal out with trembling hands and tried again, to no avail. The raiders would find her if she didn't hurry up. She should've been able to do this without a problem, this was her _job_. This was a better lock than she'd ever had to open before, though. She hadn't known there _were_ better locks.

The nailed captive shook the fence and stuck his arm through to point behind her. She spun around, gun drawn and ready but saw only the corpse of one of the first raiders she'd shot down. "Him, he's got a key," he said hurriedly.

Truth ran to get the key and was still fumbling to get it in the lock when someone shouted behind her, "By the slave pens, someone get her!" There was a new flurry of bullets and shouting and she dropped to the ground defensively, dropping the key into the dirt at the same time.

"Go, I got it," the captive shouted, grabbing the key and retreating to the back of the cage, away from the gunfire. Truth scrambled to the nearby ramp and hurried up it, her boots clanging loudly on the metal that swayed like it would give way. The gunfire followed her up and away from the pen and she tried to stay low and shoot the raiders when she could see them. Her focus was on getting back to the wall of the canyon amidst the whizzing bullets and chaos, hoping she could sneak around to another part of the camp to keep looking.

She glanced down from the ramp and saw that the pen was empty now, with no clue to where the captives had gone. A moment later, a commotion went up from the middle of the camp, a roar and the sound of screaming. The gate of the massive electrified cage in the center of camp had been opened and out charged a furious, hulking beast that dwarfed the trains and buildings surrounding it and attacked everything in sight. She stopped shooting and watched in awe for a moment as all attention in the camp turned toward the behemoth and was subsequently knocked away.

The pithy shacks and structures collapsed in the face of the rampage, and raiders scattered to get away from it. Or didn't, to their own destruction. Truth saw one of the captives hobbling with lurching, broken steps away from the generator that had been keeping the cage electrified and the behemoth contained. Truth's stomach churned when his legs gave out under him and he collapsed into the dirt. Before she could decide to climb down and help him the teenager shot out from behind one of the trains, followed shortly by the second man. They hoisted him up between them and dragged him toward the canyon leading out of the camp, careful to stay away from the carnage. When the nailed man tried to stop and looked back until he found her she waved for them to keep running and took advantage of the chaos to sneak around the back of the buildings to the other side of the camp. She let the raiders focus on the behemoth. They'd weaken it, and possibly kill it eventually, but in the meantime it tore through their numbers impressively and effectively took their attention away from her.

On the other side, she searched through the shacks and the series of tin roofs on poles, examining the bodies tied to mattresses and slashed, burned, and dismembered beyond any hope of identification as she looked for any sign of her father. She choked on the stink of old infection and blood. Despite her efforts to stay as far from the rampaging behemoth as possible, Truth found herself ducking away from collapsing structures whenever she came too close to the monster.

The roaring and carnage of the behemoth grew weaker as she searched and when it fell to the ground with a massive thud and the groaning and clanging of metal giving under its collapse, an eerie quiet followed, broken only by the screams of the wounded and dying. Feeling exposed in the silence, Truth tried to run for cover behind a pile of debris. Before she could make it there was the sound of a gun firing and she lurched with a scream, almost collapsing herself when a searing pain shot through her thigh. Trying not to fall, she swung her gun around to find the attacker. But too late, one of the raiders had already run up to her wielding a bat and before she could find the trigger through the pain in her leg, he swung the bat into her side. The rifle flew from her grasp and she fell down. The metal burned her bare arms as she tried to get back to her feet, fumbling for a weapon.

The raider knocked her on her back and knelt with an armored knee in her gut. Gasping, she tried to throw him off again and he slugged her across the face. Truth ground her teeth, grimacing at the taste of blood in her mouth, and tried not to scream though her body was screaming with pain. When she looked back up at his face covered with blood, he'd set the bat down and held a pistol to her face. The blood was rushing in her ears and she whimpered, then made herself stop. This had been a stupid idea; she could've snuck into the camp unseen rather than alert the entire canyon to her presence. Hopefully the captives she'd helped had escaped at the very least because it didn't look like she would. She couldn't even reach a second weapon without him noticing. He wrenched off her pack and tossed it away along with the handgun and knife at her hip and the bobby pins in her hair. With neither a weapon nor her bobby pins, staring down the barrel of the gun as if she would see the bullet coming, Truth felt more powerless than she could remember ever being. Tears stung at her eyes and threatened to escape down her face. Through the blur of pain and fear, she thought it took him longer than necessary to be sure she was truly disarmed, patting thoroughly through her clothes before dragging her to her feet and shoving her toward a couple of raiders who'd been standing by cautiously. Without the pins to hold it in place, her hair fell out of its bun and into her face.

"Look how nice she dressed up," he jeered and tucked her hair behind her ear, stroking her cheek. Truth shuddered. "Take her to Madame, we'll decide what to do with her later." Without a gun in her face, she struggled and tried to wrench free but even wounded the two were stronger than her. They dragged her kicking and spitting through the grisly scene the behemoth had made to the concrete building in the center of camp and down through a hole in the floor to a cavern strung with lights and littered with booze and chems. It was almost empty of people, most of the raiders having been drawn outside during the commotion. She tried to ignore the threats hissing in her ears from either side, looking for a way to escape.

Nothing presented itself before Truth was brought up to a room guarded by naked mannequins. The woman who met them at the top of the sloping path looked her over with mean, narrowed eyes, drumming her dirty fingers on the counter she sat on before getting up. "She's what all the shouting's about?" Madame asked incredulously, grabbing her by the jaw and forcing her head to turn so she could be looked at critically. "Not bad." Truth tried to wrench out of Madame's grip but with the two men holding her in place and an injured leg she couldn't find enough leverage to break free or get her legs high enough to kick Madame right in her bare stomach.

Frantically looking around the room, she spotted the barred cell almost immediately. Once they got her in there, she wouldn't stand a chance of escaping now that her bobby pins had been taken away. Even if she still had them, her earlier failure didn't bode well for the luck she'd have getting any other locks open in this place. She tried to squash the panic threatening to overwhelm her at the thought of being kept here for what remained of the camp to take their vengeance. She had to think clearly. There was a hunting rifle lying on the counter. That'd be her best shot at escape if she could get a hold of it. Madame dug her fingernails into Truth's jaw and made her look straight ahead again. Truth grimaced in pain until she let go and pointed them toward the cell.

When they dragged her past the counter she pulled to one side and then the other, throwing herself into the guard who had her left arm and knocking him into the counter, ridding herself of his grasp as he cried out in pain. She grabbed the gun and drove the butt behind her, hitting her other captor in the gut and dislodging him. Stumbling away, she turned the gun toward them and squeezed the trigger hopefully. The rifle rewarded her with a hearty jolt and a resounding explosion. One of the raiders crumpled in the close quarters and Truth managed to down the other and Madame shortly after. She collapsed against the wall, each breath tearing sharply from her chest, and she waited to see if anyone came running to investigate. No one did.

There was a shuffling from the cell behind her. A girl, barely dressed and not much older than Truth herself, peered out from between the bars with wide eyes and asked to be let out. Truth reached for a bobby pin, running a hand mechanically through her hair twice before remembering they were gone and instead crawled across the room to rummage through Madame's clothes for a key. When the cell was open, the girl thanked Truth and had requisitioned a gun and armor from the dead raiders and run off before Truth could warn her to be careful.

Moving more slowly than the freed girl, Truth found what caps and ammunition she could on the bodies and around the brothel as she looked for extra armor to throw on over her dress. Her leg and chest throbbed painfully during the entire search, but it wasn't until her leg gave out on her way out of the gross little room and left her in a whimpering tangle on the slick rocks that she decided she couldn't walk on that injury. She inspected the wound quickly, using her Pip-Boy's screen for light, then packed and wrapped it tightly with some gauze found in one of the rooms and a strip of cloth torn off her skirt before dragging herself back to her feet. This was doable, at least until she got out of the camp to somewhere safe. The pain from the bullet wound reached up her leg and torso, wrenching at her jaw with a nauseating grip. She stumbled through the tunnel the raiders had furnished for themselves, surprised when no one was around to stop her.

Outside was more a mess than she remembered. Most of the camp had been flattened and there were bodies everywhere. She found her belongings scattered about the wreckage. With hands trembling with pain, she injected the first Stimpak and Med-X she could dig out of her pack, sighing as the relieving numbness spread through her leg. She managed to fight off anyone still alive to give her trouble after that but found no trace of her father as she finished searching the camp. Presumably that was a good thing. Still, she couldn't quell the anxiety in her chest that said he had to be dead by now and she'd never find him.

She'd made it this far, though, and with no preparation. That was a fact, amazing as it was. So it was even more likely that he was surviving, which made that excursion into raider territory unnecessary. At least she'd been able to set the captives free. As she left the canyon and found her way around it, walking along the tall cliffs, she could see all the destruction at once, eerie in the dust and light of dusk. You did that, she told herself, feeling oddly proud. You did, you did, you did.


	6. World in Grey

**Sorry for taking so long on this and thanks to everyone who's still reading. I know the pacing is kind of slow but I hope you guys are enjoying it. Please let me know what you think! I'll try to upload faster but school started recently so we'll see if that actually happens. **

* * *

"Dad?" The word left her mouth in shock and died in a fog on the thick glass between them.

The tranquility loungers were the last things Truth inspected as she searched the sterile vault for clues. It was clear almost immediately that nobody was there except the cheerful robo-brains that still hummed around the vault, cleaning and maintaining the giant pods of metal and glass and wire sitting in a ring around a console in the middle of the mezzanine. Instead, she'd gone straight to the Overseer's office and spent hours sitting in front of the console by the door, sifting carefully, painstakingly through its security only to be admitted to a nearly empty room. One of the pods sat in the middle of the floor and when she looked inside she found a corpse, its skin bald and shriveled but intact and free of rot, surprisingly well-preserved inside the sealed lounger.

Disappointed, she wandered the rest of the vault, ignoring the robo-brains' commands to sit herself down in a tranquility lounger whenever they caught sight of her. She'd hoped being inside a vault again would be a comfort, a nostalgic respite after her recent battle with the raiders at Evergreen Mills. It was anything but. The vault was too empty and too clean. There wasn't even a layer of dust to suggest that no one had been there for centuries. It was as pristine as it had been when it was brand new. The humming of the robo-brains and the pods through the silence set her hair on end. It was all wrong, even the Vault-Tec jumpsuit she'd put on at the behest of the robo-brain that greeted her at the vault's entrance felt alien, like stepping back into her own skin and finding it no longer fit. She wanted to scream to fill the silence, tear off the wretched jumpsuit, and run away, back to the Wasteland, her new home, where the ghosts at least had the decency to leave a trace of themselves behind as proof they existed. But she couldn't, not while there were parts of Vault 112 still unsearched.

Her last dose of Med-X had worn off long ago and her wounded leg wobbled so painfully under her weight as she made a circuit of the other rooms that she feared she might collapse. She left her pack in a corner near the loungers, keeping her gun with her even though every door to the surface was locked or barricaded, but that didn't stop the throbbing in her leg and ribs or get rid of the taste of pain, hot and metallic, on her tongue.

When she finally conceded to herself that there was no sign of either Dr. Braun or her father in the outer rooms, she examined the console and the pods in the mezzanine and was shocked to find that the people inside were, in fact, still alive after all this time. And then there he was, in one of the loungers just like all the people she'd mistook for corpses, but not wasted away like them.

Now she pounded on the glass with a closed fist, calling to him, but he never stirred, never looked away from the screen he stared at with glassy, vacant eyes. He looked as dead as the others. The thought made her cold inside and out even though she was sweating from the heat coming off the machines. Truth looked for a way to open the pod so she could drag him out, but all of the controls were locked. For a moment, she considered trying to break the glass with the butt of her rifle but decided against it. The shock of being dragged out of the lounger like that might hurt him.

She circled the pod, peering through the glass to see what his eyes were fixed so intently on. On the screen inside, she made out grass and a playground surrounded by pre-war houses. It looked like some sort of simulation like out of the comic books she grew up reading.

"Please sit down in the nearest available tranquility lounger," one of the robo-brains crooned as it wandered near her.

If it meant any chance at getting to her dad, Truth would comply. The empty lounger hissed and whirred as the top lifted up. She had trouble climbing up into the seat and it wasn't until she'd got herself perched on the edge, laboring there for breath, that she realized that these people had been in the loungers for over two hundred years and never found their way out.

These people were also meant to keep humanity alive after the war. Even if they didn't use it, there had to be some way out so they could rebuild the world when the time came. She trusted that her dad wouldn't go into the simulation without being confident he could get out again, he'd put too much work into Project Purity.

Her heart ached with fear as she climbed into the seat. She had to trust her dad, he couldn't be so wrong about this. The lid began to close and Truth held her breath as the lounger sealed itself. In a few moments she'd be with her dad again and everything would be all right.

The hissing of the pod stopped, leaving her in silence, and a screen lowered from the ceiling and flickered on. Truth grimaced and cringed as white light flooded her vision.

* * *

The world Truth opened her eyes on was like nothing she'd ever seen outside of pictures. Big, clean houses and grassy lawns surrounded a little playground overshadowed by trees. All of the color had bled out of the world and as Truth stumbled in a circle, blinking furiously in an attempt to bring it back, she realized that everything was too big. Looking down, she found her sleeves and pants were missing. As was her Pip-Boy. And the scars she'd acquired, though she could still feel the pain of the bullet wound in her left thigh. Under the little dress, her legs were shorter than she recalled.

It didn't take her long to find a window and discover that her reflection was a young version of herself. She was awkward looking and impossibly clean. It didn't take long for an adult to find her and insist she go speak to somebody named Betty, either. After some brief confusion, he directed her to the park in the center of the neighborhood where a girl, Betty, was watering the grass.

Truth marched across the empty street, leaning heavily to one side, but stopped when her feet fell on soft ground. The grass wasn't green like she'd been led to believe, but in a world of black and white that hardly mattered. She bent down to curl her fingers through the cool blades of grass in wonderment. They were scratchy in a pleasant way and when she ripped a handful out of the ground, the moist, earthy scent wafted up to her nose pleasantly. Grinning, she looked around the small park gleefully until she noticed Betty watching her. Truth got back to her feet and kept walking, past the dog lying under a tree that looked up sharply when she walked by.

Betty greeted her with a frightening condescension and authority. It became immediately apparent why a grown man was delivering messages for a little girl and why he'd laughed when Truth asked who Betty was. Somehow, this scrappy little girl with the ashen, smashed-looking face was in charge. There hadn't been a "Betty" in any of the computers in the Vault, not that Truth remembered, though there had been a Braun. When she asked about him, after already being denied the pleasure of asking about her father, Betty gave her a knowing smile and insisted that Truth make Timmy Neusbaum cry before talking to her anymore.

Truth marched away, disgusted. If she were actually ten, she might've done it. But she was nineteen and little Timmy didn't look older than eight. That was just cruel. After time spent asking around, it became clear that getting Betty to cooperate with her was the only way she might learn about her dad. Nobody else even remembered someone new on Tranquility Lane, as they called it. No one was even aware that this was a simulation anymore. Her decision to leave Timmy alone began to falter. She was technically a child here, and in reality he was over two hundred. That wasn't so terribly imbalanced.

Truth found her solution on the Neusbaums' kitchen table after being invited inside when she told Mrs. Neusbaum she was lost. Truth asked about the military school pamphlet when the conversation began to circle around the perfectly perfect lives on Tranquility Lane. Mrs. Neusbaum, for the life of her, couldn't remember where it had come from but supposed it must belong to her husband. After all, he'd gone to military school. It wasn't long before Truth's sullen mouth and insistence that something was very wrong in the neighborhood proved too delightfully odd for Mrs. Neusbaum and she left Truth alone in the kitchen, encouraging her to get outside and play. Truth swiped the pamphlet and complied, looking for Timmy once she got to the yard.

"Hi, Timmy," she greeted, hiding the pamphlet behind her back and bracing herself. He looked up from his lemonade stand happily. "When're you leaving for military school?" Timmy's smile faltered but he didn't understand. Truth pressed on, shoving away the part of her telling her to stop. "Your mommy just told me they're sending you to military school."

"What? No, you're lying," Timmy insisted, his voice pitched high with panic. "They would never send me away!" With an apologetic grimace, Truth showed him the pamphlet for the school. The boy began to sob. "B-But I don't wanna leave my mommy!" he wailed, loud enough to be heard across the park. Truth left the pamphlet with him and slipped away before his mommy could run outside and scold her. At least this way he'd get to have his mom reassure him that his parents would never send him away and loved him very much. Truth was almost jealous. And if she was as lucky as her ten-year-old self had been when it came to making fun of other kids, her dad would be standing right behind her looking cross when she turned around.

But it was only that dog and Betty watching her from the park as she headed back. "You did it even after you said you didn't want to, good for you!" Betty said appreciatively. Her voice dropped suddenly into that of an old man, her accent thick, "Very clever, I doubt I would have thought of it." Truth stumbled backwards at the man's voice coming out of the little girl and nearly fell over. She watched Betty speak in terror. "I will reward you with a single question and I will answer honestly and frankly."

Truth scowled at her and glanced backwards to see already outside, comforting Timmy. "Where's my dad?" she demanded.

"Your dad?" Her voice was the frightening syrup of a child's again.

"Y-yeah. He's a scientist. He came here looking for Braun."

"Oh! I had no idea you two were related." Betty exclaimed and admitted that she had seen Truth's father. "However, he's rather unavailable at the moment." A cold grin crept over the girl's face.

"That doesn't answer my question, I asked where." Truth reminded her sternly. She wasn't about to let information go on details.

Betty laughed. "Oh please, this isn't a fairy tale. I don't feel like telling you anything else right now."

Truth scowled and balled her hands into fists, felt herself take a threatening step forward. "What have you done to him?"

Looking up from the bed of flowers she was watering, Betty eyed Truth's aggressive stance. "Were I you," she said, again using the voice of an old man, "I'd be more concerned with myself right now." From the beginning Truth had been scared of this uncanny place and this uncanny girl, but it wasn't until Betty's thinly veiled threat that her spine was truly replaced with cold, suffocating fear. She recoiled and found that fear had frozen her voice as well. Betty was just a little girl, fearing her made no sense. Yet Truth was afraid. The entire Vault feared Betty, clearly she had the power to inspire such fear whether Truth could see it or not.

There was a low growl behind her and the dog stepped between the girls, crouching low with hackles raised. He snarled at Betty and pressed against Truth's legs until she took a few steps in the direction he wanted her to go. "Very admirable, Doc," Betty called out as Truth was herded away and informed her that, when she was ready to play some more, she need only break up the Rockwells' marriage without any bloodshed. When Truth shook her head and kept walking, Betty remarked, "Funny, that's what you said to making Timmy cry."

"That must be Braun," Truth said to herself once she'd found a place to sit behind some bushes across the street. The dog yipped softly and sat down beside her. "Oh," Truth smiled and scratched behind his ears. His fur was clean and softer than any of the dogs she'd met previously. "You're a good dog, aren't you? I don't suppose you could show me where my dad is and get me out of here."

The dog barked, then stared at her, ignoring her scratching his ear. Truth watched him uncertainly, almost expecting something to happen, but he only whined and lay down next to her. Truth sighed. If he'd spoken to her, she would not have been surprised. Not while Braun was a little girl and they were in a computer simulation. "I didn't think so." Defeated, she ran her hand through the dog's soft coat and leaned back to consider her position. She'd already tried and utterly failed to find where her dad was hidden.

Across the street, Braun was whistling to himself as he watered patches of grass. If Braun could be a little girl, he'd probably be able to hide her father away where she couldn't find him as well. Perhaps it was time to accept that she had no control here. If she wanted to see her dad safe and get back to the wasteland, she'd play Braun's sadistic games.

"Alright, dog," she sighed and got up, giving him a final pat on the head, "I have to go be a bad girl. Don't tell my dad."

She left her hiding place, a little calmer now and steeled for the task at hand. She'd barely made it back to the sidewalk when she ran into an elderly woman with a dark and heavily wrinkled face. The old woman jerked backwards with a cry of shock when she saw Truth, exclaiming frantically that Truth wasn't supposed to be there and descending into a tirade against Braun and the Tranquility Lane simulation. Panicked and surprised that any of the vault dwellers were aware of the simulation, Truth tried to calm her down, eventually leading her back to her house and helping her make a cup of tea as she babbled about Braun's abandoned house and a failsafe that could shut down the simulation. Gently, she pressed the old woman, appropriately named Mrs. Dithers, for information about the failsafe but aside from its existence, she didn't know anything.

It was another choice though, one that didn't require her to bow to Braun. Truth thanked Mrs. Dithers and sought out the abandoned house. When she found it, she checked to be sure that Braun was still watering flowers and humming to himself in the park before creeping up to the door. There was a rustling in the bushes that made her jump and the dog slunk out of the leaves to join her. She huffed at him disapprovingly and opened the door wide enough for him to enter before her.

Inside was dark and bare aside from the upended furniture and junk scattered about. The dog left her side to sniff around the edges of the room and Truth walked amongst the furniture, at a loss for how she was supposed to find the failsafe until her hand fell on a broken radio and a single, long note chimed through the air. Startled, she jerked away, brushing against an empty pitcher. A second note chimed, at a different pitch. When the sound died, Truth exchanged a glance with the dog who was looking up at her, puzzled, and mentally scolded herself for acting like this dog was her partner in crime. Or even understood what was going on.

She cast an eye over the other objects in the room. A gnome, a cinder block, an unusually clean empty Nuka-Cola bottle. Her hand wavered in the air before she touched the cinder block experimentally. Another note, followed by a curt, angry buzz. Nothing happened. Clearly that wasn't right. She touched the other objects, filling the room with chiming and buzzing as she searched for the right combination. Hopefully, the commotion couldn't be heard outside the house and Braun would continue his humming rather than investigate. Truth wondered if the tune he was so fond of was the code. If it was, those music lessons her dad had always wanted her to take might have come in handy. Because she'd refused and knew nothing about music, she was left to try different combinations until the air on the far side of the room shimmered with light and a giant computer appeared.

The dog jumped backwards and Truth approached cautiously and logged in. The terminal held accounts of past simulations and the various tortures Braun had delighted in inflicting upon the people of the vault. Truth's stomach churned as she read through everything and it became clear that, while none of these people were getting out of Tranquility Lane alive, the failsafe would be a mercy after what Braun had put them through. She initiated it.

Almost immediately, they heard screaming and gunfire outside. Soldiers and bodies were already in the street when they left the house and the dog stuck close to Truth as she snuck across the road to where Braun was watching the spectacle, his young face flushed with rage. The ribbons were falling out of his hair. As soon as he saw Truth, he started screaming that she'd ruined everything, that she'd trapped him here all alone for eternity.

Furious, Truth straightened up and marched toward him. "I'm freeing them from you, you're getting exactly what you deserve," she hissed. Braun looked at her in dismay. "Now tell me where my dad is."

He scoffed and admitted that her father was, in fact, the dog.

Truth's head snapped around to look at the animal. Her face went hot and she barely heard Braun jeer that she'd been too dense to notice what was right in front of her. He'd been there the whole time, watching her bully Timmy, decide to play along with Braun, and finally sentence the entire vault to death. She had hoped to keep those details to herself when she finally found him again. There was fear and shame in her when she followed him through the exit that had materialized and she took a deep breath to prepare herself to face him.


	7. Like Father

The air hissed as the pod opened. Truth gasped in the real air. A fresh stab of pain shot through her leg as she tried to climb out of her seat and she clenched her teeth against a scream, clumsily lowering herself to the ground. Her dad was already there, helping her down and pulling her into a tight embrace.

"Truth, you saved me," he said in disbelief, "I was afraid I'd be stuck in there forever!" She waited for him to scold her and looked guiltily over his shoulder at the pods now filled with dead. He said nothing about what she'd done to get him out and Truth relaxed a little and clung to her father, holding on tight as if letting go would make him disappear again. She was back in her own body but in that embrace she truly felt like a little girl being held by her daddy after months of fear and loss. It was all she could do not to bawl into his shoulder. "It's so good to see you, sweetie," he said, kissing the top of her head and pulling away.

They studied each other with furrowed brows. He looked so much older than she'd last seen him. His hair was more grey and his face more haggard. The happiness was already gone from his face and he looked back at her with a guarded expression that withered her open relief. He wasn't going to say anything but she was sure he was wondering how she had come to taking innocent lives so easily. She wasn't sure, herself. Carefully, she stopped clinging to him and stepped away. Her bad leg trembled and collapsed when she did so. Her dad caught her before she hit the ground and pulled her back to her feet, holding her up. "What happened?" he demanded, "You're injured."

"I got shot," Truth grimaced, ineffectively trying to push him away and stand on her own. That was all he needed to know, not that she'd been shot while she was doing something stupid and nearly getting herself killed. "It's not that bad, I already patched it up."

Despite her assurance, he insisted on looking at the wound himself and helped her up the stairs to the clinic, carrying her pack for her. He turned his back while she changed out of the vault jumpsuit and lifted herself onto the examination table in the shorts and undershirt she'd taken to wearing under her armor.

He turned around slowly at the sound. Truth unwrapped the bloodstained bandages around her thigh before he could help her. She was still filthy, she realized sheepishly, noticing the dirt caked on her arms and legs.

"Truth, this is pretty bad," he said aghast when he inspected the wound. It didn't look infected, but the skin around it was swollen, dark purple and the bullet had torn through muscle. "You shouldn't be walking around on it."

He attacked the area with stinging disinfectant and Truth gripped the edge of the table, grimacing against the pain and the rebuke. "I didn't really have a choice if I wanted to get here and find you." Her dad clenched his jaw and Truth attempted to put her tone in check. "I…I did my best to make it manageable."

He nodded. "It looks like you did a pretty good job of that. Did you try to get the bullet out?"

"No," Truth scoffed. She'd have torn up the rest of her leg in the attempt.

"Good, good." A smile tinged with pride pulled at his mouth. "That's my girl."

"You sound surprised," Truth remarked hesitantly, a little indignant. "I know what I'm doing. I wanted to be a doctor, remember? I studied this stuff." She'd found uses for her knowledge, too, even before leaving the Vault, when the radroaches bit her while she was shooting or after scuffling with the Tunnel Snakes. Once she was in the Wasteland, all of her studying as a child had kept her alive in the face of the harsh, new environment.

"How could I forget?" her dad chuckled.

Truth frowned at the memory and didn't say anything for a moment. The tension between them was thick and brittle and they moved carefully, like over glass, afraid to break it. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

He had and as he cleaned the bullet wound and other scrapes on her arms and legs he told her excitedly about the G.E.C.K., the old-world technology that he hoped to complete Project Purity with. When he'd explained, she got the sober truth about Project Purity and their move into the Vault out of him, just a confirmation of everything she had already learned on her own, from Doctor Li and his holotapes and Moriarty, of all people. It crushed her to get the real story from him only after he couldn't deceive her anymore.

When he finished treating her injuries, Truth took the fresh bandages from him and began rewrapping her wound herself. She took a deep breath as he stepped away. "Why'd you leave me, dad? You knew I'd want to go with you." She was stiff. All of the feelings of betrayal and abandonment that had plagued her since the night he left were bubbling up again and she continued to hold them in, kept it under the surface. She wanted to know what he had to say.

"That's precisely why I didn't tell you," he sighed, "I wanted you to stay there and be safe. I hoped you'd be able to have a decent life down there."

Truth stared at him in silent fury, recalling the chaos that surrounded her escape – the gunfire, the bodies, the panic and the alarms. Even before that she had been beaten up periodically by Butch's little gang. Learning about the Overseer's hand in that only made those memories more infuriating. "Safe?" she spat and wound the bandage sharply around her leg once more, hissing between her teeth when it was too tight. Biting back a curse, she fumbled to tape her wrappings and set the remaining bandages aside before speaking again. "Dad, you left me with a psychopath!" She found she was yelling but she didn't care and she didn't listen when he tried to correct her. "A psychopath who hates my guts. How does that sound safe to you?"

James crossed his arms sternly. "The Overseer could be paranoid, yes, but you still would have had a safer life in the Vault than out here in this warzone. Truth, your grudge against him was completely out of hand."

"Was it?" Truth demanded. "I found files on his computer all about how he's got Butch and his gang doing his dirty work and how he tried to get you to help him quiet some of the old people."

His bewilderment was too much like that of a cornered and startled dog to be innocent. She remembered the tape where he confessed to breaking into that very same terminal. Truth's heart sank, and then it hardened.

"…You knew that's why I got beat up and was in trouble so much. And you just told me it was in my head, that I needed to stop complaining about him."

"You were in trouble because you went around calling the Overseer an evil, lying troll."

"I wasn't wrong," Truth snarled.

"You weren't right, either."

"You might think so if you'd seen what happened when you left," she persisted, "They tried to kill me and the only warning I had was Amata dragging me out of bed." Her dad was horrified and confused as she told him of her escape and the chaos going on inside the Vault.

"I can't believe this," he said. He'd begun pacing while she spoke, as if the horror couldn't be contained in a stagnant body. "I didn't think he'd be so mad that he'd go after a child…" He stopped walking suddenly, and looked at her suspiciously. "Why didn't Jonas help you? He promised me he'd make sure you were all right."

A cold pit formed in Truth's stomach and her throat went dry. The entire flight for her life was a blur of gunfire and alarms and shouting interspersed with overpowering confusion. But the moment she walked into the Overseer's quarters and saw Jonas beaten and dead on the ground stood out in awful clarity. They hadn't even bothered to move his body out of the way. She swallowed before speaking again. "They killed him."

Her dad looked stricken at the announcement. Slowly, carefully, he found one of the clinic's chairs and sat down. Truth hugged her good leg to her chest as she watched him. Jonas had been her father's assistant since before she could remember. By her tenth birthday, Truth was harboring a huge crush for him and her dad had always treated him like family. He really was the only other family they had in the Vault, in her opinion. In the heavy silence, she wondered, as she had many times since leaving the Vault, if she might have been able to save him had her father involved her in the escape.

"I wasn't just a child," Truth said at last, "I was the loyalty inspector. Of course he came after me. I could have helped you, though." He looked up at her with clouded eyes and she knew he took her meaning, that perhaps it all could have been avoided.

"You were in _training_ to become loyalty inspector," James insisted hollowly, and Truth recognized, with a twinge of resentment, the overly patient tone he always took on when she ran to him in a fit over some new conspiracy. She bristled.

"No, I _was_ the loyalty inspector." Truth spat, then faltered at the incredulity on his face, "I… No one was supposed to know. In a few years he was gonna demote me to custodial so everyone would forget I was supposed to spy on them." She had hoped her own father would see through that whole charade. Now, she finally saw the pieces come together to form a disgusting truth in his head. "But I knew most of what was going on in the Vault already, except what the Overseer hid from me and everything you were up to because I drew the line at spying on my family. I didn't tell him that, I just told him you were playing the good doctor. I never thought you'd be the one to actually do something, not after you were always so quick to shut me down." She was proud, of course, that the first act of rebellion came from her own family, but that only made the sting worse. "If I'd known, though, I could've gotten us out easier and safer. I know I could've."

James kneaded his brow. "Truth," he sighed, "I left you because I wanted you to be safe, you had a chance at a good life—"

"Do you really believe that?" Truth cut him off, unable to stop herself. This reunion had brought all of her resentment to a boil. She wanted to be angry without having to listen to the excuses he gave her. "My dad left the Vault and I wasn't the one to rat on him, you think I'd be anything more than a garbage burner after that?"

He hesitated before telling her, "There wasn't a better situation I could've left you in. You were settled, you had his good graces."

"I was miserable. Is that what you wanted for me? There was no life for me in the Vault. I'm better suited to life out here. I can shoot, I can take a beating…"

"Yes," James said, looking sadly at the bruises and bandages covering her, "but my hope was that you wouldn't have to. All that hardly matters now, it seems," he sighed, "You're here and, thank God, you're alive."

"I am," Truth nodded curtly and hopped off the table. "Not only that, I saved your life." She took a moment to make sure her bandages would stay in place before rummaging through her pack for her dress.

With a half-hearted chuckle James admitted, "You did, you really did. You've proven yourself more than capable." Truth glanced at him cautiously. "I made a terrible mistake, Truth, but please believe that I thought I was making the best decision. I hope you can forgive me, and I hope you'll come to Rivet City with me now and help finish Project Purity. I could use your help and… it would be good to work with you."

Truth froze, clutching the dress to her chest. All she'd ever wanted was to work with her father. Now that offer hurt and it had a stink to it. "Really?" she asked in disbelief, already knowing what her answer would be. "I spent years begging to work with you, trying to get close to you, and you always kept me at a distance. I spent all that time thinking if I studied harder, or if I could get assigned to the clinic, I'd finally be, I dunno, good enough for you. I finally gave up on that and now you want me to work with you? And it's that simple?"

James blanched like she'd slapped him. "Truth," he tried, standing up and stepping toward her.

"Dad," she shot back, "you abandoned me and you put me in danger and you lied to me and now you're acting like I should forget all that and be okay with it." The words came out of her mouth in a tumble. She took a deep breath, her head spinning with her fury. "And I'm not."

"I want a second chance to do this right," James was insisting, "I don't want to lose my daughter again, but I don't expect you to forgive me quickly."

"Good! I don't expect to forgive you any time soon either!" Truth huffed and stepped away from his outstretched arms. He winced; her eyes were burning with unshed tears. "I'm not going with you," she was shocked to hear herself actually say, "It's like you're trying to keep me close by so you can keep protecting me and I don't want you to. I don't need you to. This place is really broken and dangerous, yeah, but I'm starting to find a place for myself that I never had in the Vault where you wanted me. I have a home and friends and I can help people out here. But I'm gonna do it my way, not yours. I am _done_ trying to be you."

The pain that filled the silence that followed her outburst was terrible. She saw the dismay in his face and felt it in her chest but couldn't bring herself to take it back. She forced back the tears that had been threatening to streak her cheeks since she got out of the tranquility lounger and met her father's gaze to show him that she wasn't going to change her mind and that he'd lost any right to try to make her.


	8. Hellhole

"Please, be careful," James had begged her when he left Megaton. He'd insisted on going that far with her to make sure she made it back safely on her wounded leg. Most of the trip was spent in uncomfortable silence as Truth fretted over how to apologize and whether she even wanted to. Instead, she spent the few days he was in town avoiding him in favor of catching up with Gob and Moira.

She assured him flatly that she would be very careful and watched him disappear into the shimmering heat of the Wasteland toward Rivet City. After that, it was easiest to throw herself back into her work with Moira. The few months she'd spent alone in the Wastes had her focused solely on her own survival, and it was refreshing to be involved in Moira's brand of study and invention by trial and error and to stay up late talking to Gob over the bar again.

Her leg healed enough that she could wander back into the Wastes on various errands for Moira and her discovery of the outside world renewed. Between trips to collect data on molerats and mirelurks for the kooky scientist, Truth dragged home pieces of furniture and smaller pre-war finds – little ceramic men, teddy bears, and toy trucks emblazoned with the Nuka-Cola logo – that soon filled her house. A set of tattered schematics for a large, unusual rifle that she scavenged from an abandoned power station provided the girls with yet another project. The gun was for Truth, of course, but Moira was the one who knew how to put things together. Even working together, though, they were having trouble getting working parts together to finish building it.

Her excursions took her further and further from home as her leg healed until she was staying out for days and then weeks, still trying to forget that her father was out there, working in the east. She traveled far to the north past the ruins of D.C. where she'd run into a group of runaway slaves holed up in a dilapidated concrete fortress. She approached the crumbling building thinking it was just another empty ruin, perhaps a safe place to find salvage and rest. She wasn't expecting to find a gun and its cranky owner confronting her from a second story window, demanding to know her business.

"I was looking for a place to hunker down for the night," Truth called up to the angry woman, lowering her own gun in a show of cooperation and hoping she wouldn't get shot. All Truth could see from her vantage point was the woman's dark face and hair, neither quite as dirty as Truth's own, and thick leather armor she was used to seeing on mercenary groups. The fortress wasn't marked with paint and corpses and blood, and neither was the guard, but that didn't mean she and whatever group she had with her were overly welcoming.

The woman snarled down at her. Truth was about to offer to simply walk away without trouble when the guard spat derisively, "Hannibal says I have to help people like you but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Stay right where you are, I'm coming to open the gate."

Truth scowled back as the woman let her in and sent her upstairs to speak to a man called Hannibal, locking the gate loudly behind her. A few bedraggled wastelanders milled about the ruined lobby she'd entered and watched her ascend the steps. They didn't look like mercenaries or any sort of gang she'd encountered.

Hannibal was a surprisingly kind looking man after Truth's encounter with the woman on guard and he told her the score. All of them holed up in the Temple of the Union, as they called the old building, were runaway slaves – a fact Truth had obviously been unaware of. She swore she wouldn't oust them to anyone who might pass the information along to slavers or bounty hunters and Hannibal seemed to relax but still cast an eye over the weapons she carried.

"Perhaps you could help us," he went on, and Truth was all too eager until she learned what that help would be. "I want to move us into the Lincoln Memorial, build a beacon for all slaves. But from what I hear that area is crawling with super mutants and raiders."

"Where is the memorial, exactly?" Truth interjected nervously.

It was in D. C., supposedly across from the Washington Monument. Truth swallowed a groan. "Yeah, you heard right about the super mutants," she said wearily and hesitated before going on. It was a good plan, really, if they could pull it off. The ghouls had done it, if she was remembering Gob's stories correctly, and supposedly had a fairly peaceful existence surrounded by the super mutants and feral-filled metros. "I… I'll check it out and see what I can do." Her better nature was going to get the best of her someday.

They let her stay the night, sharing their food and stories with her after getting her straight on what they needed from her in D. C., which included not just the clearing of the memorial, but also documents and pictures from the Museum of History. Despite the harrowing job she'd just taken on, that night was one of the most restful she could remember having since entering the Wasteland as she found herself surrounded by good people she could trust and who trusted her.

After that and the several sleepless nights that followed, she hovered at the entrance to a metro in D. C., debating whether to risk sprinting across the gutted lawn to the Museum of History and finding it hard to push back thoughts of her father at the same time. This was not what he would consider careful. The thought flickered briefly through her head, fizzling out as the popping of gunfire peppered the air. Truth ducked back toward the subway, hoping she hadn't been seen. The shots didn't land near her. She peeked out again and saw the skirmish across the trenches between the Brotherhood of Steel and super mutants. A space of land behind the Brotherhood soldiers was left empty and unconcerned with the fighting.

Truth watched for another moment to be sure the fight wouldn't turn toward her, then clutched her rifle and ran, pumping her arms and legs. Her heavy pack and the unfinished railway rifle thumped against her back, knocking a little breath out of her each time, pushing her forward. Turning her head to see the battle, she saw one of the super mutants' guns turn toward her and she hit the ground fast, diving behind one of the unused ramparts. The flimsy structure shuddered and the wood stung her back when the bullets hit it. Truth cowered for a couple more rounds until the impacts stopped, the real battle drawing the mutie's attention from her.

She clambered to her knees and sprinted the rest of the way across before a stray bullet or laser could make it through her defenses. Skittering to a stop between the stone columns outside the Museum of History, Truth clung to the building to catch her breath. Making sure none of the super mutants were paying her any mind, she stepped out from between the pillars. She turned to examine her new surroundings and jumped backwards as the barrel of yet another gun appeared in her peripheral, leveling her own rifle.

"Stop right there," a gravelly voice ordered. Truth tried to look past the barrel at the woman threatening her. Her skin had rotted blue and green and she did not look happy. But she hadn't fired yet, and Truth was learning that if someone didn't fire on her the first chance they got she could usually avoid getting shot at. Carefully, Truth removed her hand from the pump of her rifle and lifted her hands unthreateningly into the air. "What are you doing here, smoothskin?" the ghoul woman demanded. The gun remained aimed at her head.

"I need something from the museum," Truth told her and swallowed hard, eyeing the pistol anxiously. "What are you doing here?" she ventured.

The ghoul looked taken aback and regarded Truth as if she were stupid. "I'm the sentry."

Truth blinked. "Sentry?"

"The guard?"

It took all of her willpower not to scowl and roll her eyes at the ghoul woman's condescension. She knew what a sentry was. "For what?"

The sentry was incredulous enough to drop the gun out of Truth's face, but that didn't help her confusion. "Underworld! City of ghouls? Located in the museum of history? What kind of tourist doesn't know that?

"I'm not a tourist!" Truth insisted, but the sentry would not be convinced, even as she stood aside to let Truth enter the building. The Vault girl hesitated at the door and called back, "Can I visit Underworld?"

"Yeah, sure," the sentry drawled sardonically without looking at her. "Look around, spend some caps." Truth bristled at the muttered "tourist" that followed as the sentry turned back to her watch.

She slipped into the museum and glimpsed the columned entrance to Underworld through the lobby. To her left, a sign over a door spouted the presence of the Lincoln exhibit. She hesitated and approached the wing, cracking the door open with her gun at the ready. A low, guttural growl hissed through the dank air. She'd spent enough time trekking through D.C.'s underground to recognize the sound of feral ghouls immediately. Her stomach churned and she shut the door gently. She'd just come through a ghoul infested metro, she wasn't ready to fight more if there was civilization so close by.

After a swig from her canteen, she crossed the atrium, stopping to stare agape at the monstrous skeletons looming over her with frightening, toothy mouths. A shiver went through her. She'd never seen creatures like these, they were even bigger than behemoths. She always assumed the animals that roamed the wastes were giant mutations of the old world, but as she inched past the old bones she wondered if perhaps she was wrong.

A plaster skull held a sign that read "UNDERWORLD" over a series of heavy doors at the far end of the room. Truth pulled one of them open enough to slip through.

The smell hit her first. The rest of the museum smelled musky and damp, other towns smelled of dirt and sweat, but in the close quarters of the ghoul city, the stench of rotting flesh choked and overpowered.

Second, she was aware of the fallen hush as she looked around the concourse. The ghouls milling about the main hall had stopped their business to stare at the smoothskin stranger coming through their doors. Truth waivered there awkwardly, skimming the small crowd and trying to pick out someone to approach for directions until an elderly looking ghoul in a RobCo jumpsuit solved her dilemma by stepping away from the conversation he'd been having and greeting her.

His name was Winthrop and he kept Underworld running on old generators and scrap equipment. He was friendly – or she thought so, anyway, she was pretty sure he was joking about eating smoothskins – and gave her brief directions around town, for which she was immensely grateful. She followed him back to his office and dug through her pack for scrap metal and other parts he was running short of while he told her about the faulty vents. Coming from the Vault, Truth shared his concerns but for the most part she didn't understand the technical side of what he shared with her, she was just happy to help out.

When he'd taken all he could from her, she made her way back across the concourse to the general store Winthrop had pointed out with a mind to sell what she didn't need before trying to rent a bed at Carol's. She expected it was the same Carol who lived in Underworld that Gob talked about sometimes. Dirty and tired, making a good impression on Gob's friend probably should've been the last thing on her mind, but it wasn't. In the meantime, the excitable ghoul at Underworld Outfitters happily bought the salvage Truth had been picking up and kept her there for a few hours as she related what she knew of Underworld's history. Truth was rapt with attention and came out of the exchange with Paradise Lost, a new book to keep her busy between long bouts of walking.

Tulip noted the unfinished gun Truth was carrying, too, and when she didn't try to sell it for parts the ghoul commented, "I think I've seen a gun like that before, I might have blueprints if you need them." Before Truth could tell her that she already had a blueprint, Tulip was rummaging through a bin of papers behind the counter and came up with a tattered set of schematics.

Truth glanced over them and immediately noticed discrepancies between this and the ones she already had. She fished her copy out to compare briefly before asking, "How much?" When they settled on a price Truth asked if Tulip could help her finish putting the gun together.

"Oh, no, I don't know how to do that," Tulip admitted, "Quinn would know but he's away." Truth nodded and thanked Tulip for the help as she left and headed up the stairs. She still had a small supply of booze and chems that were no good to her and that Tulip wasn't interested in. They probably weren't of any interest to Carol and her customers, either, but Truth suspected she could get rid of them at The Ninth Circle, apparently Underworld's bar and a place some of the residents found disagreeable.

Her hand had barely touched the door to the bar when it was wrenched open from the other side and she found herself face to face with two ghouls, one impossibly tall and the other impossibly drunk and bandaged head to toe. Truth jumped backwards, but not in time to avoid crashing into the bandaged ghoul as he was thrown out of the room. She caught him and fell back on one leg so they didn't both topple to the ground, making a face at the stench of dirty bandages and heavy alcohol.

Looking shocked and annoyed to find Truth in the way, the taller ghoul hauled the drunk off her and shoved him down the hall, grumbling to himself. Truth gaped after the bandaged ghoul to see that he seemed to be making it down the hall all right but he didn't seem terribly concerned that he'd just been tossed out. When she turned back around, the tall ghoul was still standing over her and she realized that not only was he the tallest man she'd ever seen, he was probably the most muscular, too. His mottled skin was a ruddy color and the hair he had left was redder than her own. He looked her over with cold, disinterested scrutiny that made her feel like a radroach he was figuring out how easily he could squash. She didn't think she stood much of a chance if he decided she needed squashing either. He stepped aside enough for her to enter, presumably deciding she wasn't trouble.

Tentatively, she stepped through the door. "Thanks," she muttered, and meant to ask him about the drunk but as soon as she started talking, his face hardened in something akin to panic and irritation. Letting go of the door, he turned away from her abruptly and started to walk away. "I – Hey!"

"Talk to Ahzrukhal," he shot back without turning around.

Truth bristled and watched him stand in the corner of the room before looking around herself. People were looking at her curiously and she felt her face grow hot. Thankfully, her sunburned cheeks probably hid any blushing. She moved to the bar where the bartender had been watching the exchange with an amused grin. Under the sickly green of his skin, his face was all long, sharp angles. "Well, lookie here," he said as she climbed up onto one of the barstools, as if announcing her presence to his patrons, "We got us a smoothskin I ain't ever seen before." His voice made her cringe, the way the words rolled off his tongue at her like slime.

"Are you Ahzrukhal?"

"Why, yes, I am. Welcome to the Ninth Circle," he greeted her dramatically, "Miss…?"

"Truth."

Ahzrukhal gave a short cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and urged her to buy a drink.

"Actually, I was hoping you'd be interested in adding to your supply." It turned out he was very interested and Truth bent to retrieve the goods from her pack. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the tall ghoul was still standing in the corner, just watching the bar. She put a few bottles on the counter and leaned forward, shrugging in the tall ghoul's direction. "What's his problem?" The smile Ahzrukhal gave her chilled her skin.


	9. Pest Control

**Merry Christmas and all that.**

* * *

Truth felt sick. The ghoul in the corner was Charon, the Ninth Circle's bouncer as well as Ahzrukhal's personal body guard, and the more Ahzrukhal talked about him, the more he sounded like a slave.

"You insult me, madam," Ahzrukhal hissed when she said as much. "Slavery is an abomination. Chains are earned, never forced." Truth flinched away from the intensity of his anger. "The circumstances of his employment are between him and myself, but I assure you it was Charon's own choices that landed him in my employ." The Vault dweller scowled across the counter, not believing for a second that Charon's choices had ever intended to leave him working in a dirty bar for a dirty businessman.

"And he does whatever you ask?"

"Whatever, whenever. Don't get me wrong," Ahzrukhal admitted, "I have no doubt that he holds no end of animosity toward me. But so long as he is my employee, he is as gentle as a teddy bear." His voice dropped to a guttural croon on the last few words and Truth gaped up at him, disgusted as if he had said them about her.

"I want it," she blurted without thinking.

The bartender looked taken aback. "…What?"

Truth hesitated, fumbling over the decision before saying with forced certainty, "I want his contract. How much are you willing to sell it for?"

He responded with a crooked grin. "Surely you must be joking. Charon is an invaluable part of my operation."

"Isn't there anything?"

A slyness crept over his face and for a moment she feared he would require her to play the role of teddy bear but that dilemma was quickly replaced. What he really wanted was an end to competition and, more specifically, an end to Greta, the waitress at Carol's.

Truth was ashamed of herself for actually weighing the life of a stranger against the circumstance of another. Her disgust with herself turned back on the ghoul, along with her frustration. "I'm not doing that," she snarled.

"Suit yourself," Ahzrukhal shrugged. "Now, are we going to do business or shall I have Charon show you the door?" She saw him glance toward where Charon was standing and scowled, trying to think quickly. She had money. Once she'd figured out what to kill for food and what was worth salvaging, she'd been able to save her caps. She dug the rest of her supply of alcohol and the chems out of her pack. Ahzrukhal protested the drugs good-naturedly, stopping when she rolled her eyes at him.

"How's a thousand caps and all this sound?"

The bartender blinked, a wonderment and greed shining in his eyes that was quickly covered in a flinty business mask. "Excuse me?"

"For the contract."

"I thought I said that matter was closed."

"This'll put you ahead for months and you could hire a _new_ bodyguard and still have caps left over." Instead of waiting for him to respond, she started counting out the money while he pretended to consider her offer. This was buying another person, Truth thought shamefully. But she would free him from his contract as soon as possible, she had no plans to keep him and exploit him. Really, the sooner the better. She quite preferred traveling alone.

"Yes, yes, this could work," Ahzrukhal said finally as she finished counting. He counted them again himself before scooping them off the counter and handing over a folded piece of paper he pulled from an inner pocket of his suit. "I'll give you the pleasure of telling Charon yourself." It was clear from his tone and the satisfaction he took in counting the caps that he thought he was getting the high end of the deal.

Fuming, Truth unfolded the tattered paper and laid it flat on the counter where the light was best. The print was tiny and impossibly faded; Truth needed her glasses to even begin to decipher it. The terms were basic and terrifying. Simple enough that a clever bastard like Ahzrukhal would have no trouble exploiting the loopholes and stringent enough that a well-meaning soul like Truth could find no loophole to free him. He had to protect and obey whoever held his contract, but the only orders he had to follow had to do with combat. "Combat" was left undefined. The only portion she saw some hope in was the self-defense clause that stated violence on her part would invalidate the contract. Whether for good or just between the two of them was unclear.

With a sigh, she removed her glasses and got up from the bar. She would have to discuss it with Charon himself. She shook as she crossed the room, nearly sick with the thought that she'd just purchased another person like she would a new gun.

* * *

The smoothskin was a surprise. From the moment she appeared outside the Ninth Circle most of the bar's attention was focused on her, a curiosity more than anything. Even with all the firepower she carried, she was too genuinely polite and dressed too impractically to be considered a real threat. No one else was acting up though, and she was a break from the monotony. While she sat at the bar, leaning away stiffly when Ahzrukhal swooped in on her, Charon tried to guess how she had made it through D. C. and where she had come from. It was practical to size up new customers as best he could in case they did decide to start trouble, but it was an exercise in passing the time more than anything.

Too pale and well-fed to have grown up in the Wastes, she had likely come from a settlement. Probably Rivet City, which was better supplied and mostly out of the sun. The machine on her wrist stumped him. Long ago he'd seen those who came out of the Vaults wearing them but he had not thought any of those still worked. He was weighing her poorly maintained weapons and outfit consisting of a tattered dress and ramshackle armor against the possibility of her fighting her way to Underworld alone when the smoothskin's conversation with Ahzrukhal suddenly turned sour.

Ahzrukhal leaned over the counter to snarl at the girl and was already looking Charon's way to make sure he was paying attention. Charon prepared to throw yet another person out of the bar, forcing back a smile. His employer looked like he had been insulted and Charon could appreciate anyone who got his boss wound up that way so quickly. As long as he didn't have to hurt her, he would be happy to throw her out over and over again.

But he didn't throw her out once. She changed Ahzrukhal's tune somehow, mostly by laying caps upon caps on the counter in front of him. Charon watched, confused, as the pile of caps slowly took over the counter between them. He couldn't imagine what she could possibly be paying him so much for. She had never been in the bar before, so it could not be an old debt.

And then Ahzrukhal pulled something small from his pocket and handed it over. Charon's heart nearly stopped. Neither of them looked at him. Ahzrukhal counted his new caps, smug as Charon had ever seen him, and the smoothskin hunched over her patch of bar to read something, her posture becoming ever more tense. Gone were Charon's thoughts of where she had come from and how she got there. He hardly breathed as he watched her read with a mad hope and a frustration that mounted with every second she sat there scowling with a hand tugging at her orange hair.

Finally, finally, she got up and approached him, nervously clutching a weathered piece of paper. She looked up at him and Charon watched whatever words she had die in her throat, leaving them in strained silence that did not give him answers.

"Talk to–" he found himself saying automatically. She shook herself at the sound of his voice and cut him off, holding the familiar piece of paper up for him to see.

"Wait, I…I bought your contract."

Charon's mind raced and he struggled for a response. "That is…good to know," he said. In a place as safe as Underworld with an employer as careful as Ahzrukhal, he thought he was stuck in the Ninth Circle until the world ended all over again. He would not have thought anything could convince Ahzrukhal to give up his contract, not after everything he had put Charon through.

The bartender was locking his new riches away as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed and in that moment Charon remembered every cruelty he had ever wanted vengeance for. The bastard had given him an opportunity he had never expected to have, but he would have to take it immediately, before the smoothskin wanted to leave. There would never be another chance.

"Excuse me," he said, pushing past his new employer, who nodded dumbly and stepped aside. "I must take care of something."

Ahzrukhal grinned up at him slyly as he approached the bar and Charon was struck by how much he towered over his old employer. Never had he felt so tall. He liked it. "Charon," Ahzrukahl rasped familiarly, "have you come to say good-bye?"

"Yes." Charon found himself grinning back as he pulled the shotgun off his back in a quick, smooth motion. The cocky smile melted off Ahzrukhal's ugly face, replaced with delicious terror. Then Charon fired twice and the face that had haunted him for nearly a century splattered the room in a bloody mess.

People screamed, including the smoothskin. Charon ignored the flurry of ghouls fleeing the room in a panic. On the ground behind the counter, Ahzrukhal's head had been totally obliterated. He wouldn't be terrorizing his patrons anymore. Some of the blood had landed on Charon's shotgun. He picked a forgotten rag off the bar and wiped his weapon down before putting it away and turning to face the girl who now had is contract.

He expected to find her pressed against the back wall, cowering perhaps, but she was standing behind him, the contract refolded and held limply at her side. He hid his surprise that she had managed to sneak up on him and waited for her to speak. She looked stunned, her jaw clenched as she struggled with what she was looking at. Perhaps killing his former employer was not the best introduction but he would not change what he'd done if given the chance. She would use his contract as she would and Ahzrukhal…Ahzrukhal had it coming.

Tearing her eyes away from the corpse, she took a deep breath and looked at him. "What was _that_?" she demanded.

Charon crossed his arms. "Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard," he explained coolly. "But now that you are my employer I was free to rid the world of that disgusting rat."

The corners of her mouth twitched upward, the effort she took to keep her face stony was more obvious every second. She glanced nervously at the body again and asked slowly, "Are you going to do that to me?"

It was unlikely she could rival the torment Ahzrukhal had inflicted. Of course, he didn't know that. He seemed to be getting into the habit of killing his employers. It was not something he planned on, however. "As long as you hold my contract I shall follow you, for ill or for good," he told her honestly. "What happens if my employment ends, I do not know."

* * *

That was reassuring to a point. Mostly it just reminded Truth that she hadn't actually succeeded in freeing him. They were going to get along, though, she knew that much. She had wanted to shoot Ahzrukhal herself, starting early in their conversation, and no one would know how much the bartender deserved a bullet to the head better than Charon.

Still, she couldn't help thinking the blame for Ahzrukhal's death would fall on her. She blew a frustrated puff of air out of her mouth. "I'm Truth," she informed him. "Do we need to skip town?"

But it was too late to run. Behind them, the door opened cautiously. Truth turned to see Winthrop poking his head into the room, holding a pistol. Charon stiffened beside her but Winthrop only gave them a brief glance, his focus landing instead on the blood splattering the wall behind the bar. He crept forward, followed by another ghoul who Truth didn't know, but from his lab coat and the doctor's bag clutched in his white-knuckled hand, she guessed he was the Doctor Barrows Winthrop had mentioned earlier.

He reached the bar before Winthrop and his face hardened when he saw the headless body. He gave a defeated sigh and dropped his bag on the counter. "Looks like I'm not needed here after all."

Winthrop peered over the counter and his face paled queasily. The hand holding the pistol fell limply to his side. "I thought you said you'd try not to shoot anyone," he said, finding Truth on Charon's other side.

"I didn't shoot him," Truth insisted defensively, "Charon did." She cringed. If that wasn't throwing him to the dogs, she didn't know what was. But that's what had happened.

Winthrop and Doctor Barrows exchanged a puzzled glance and looked between her and Charon. She saw their eyes land on the paper in her hand and knew they figured she'd ordered him to do it and couldn't see how to convince them otherwise.

A boon to her racing heart, Charon spoke up. "It is not her fault." Winthrop and Barrows looked as stunned as Truth felt, but not as relieved. "Ahzrukhal sold my contract and I decided to get rid of him, it was not on orders. Underworld will be better off without him."

Silence. Then, "He's right about that, maybe I won't have to sew Patchwork's fingers on as often." Truth blanched, bewildered at the statement that didn't seem to faze any of the ghouls. If anything there was a degree of relief in their reactions. She still burned with anxiety. "Let's get him cleaned up," the doctor went on, "and then we can sort this out. Charon, you help me carry him out to the station. Smoothskin, give Winthrop a hand in here."

No one moved and Truth realized Charon was looking at her. His expression was guarded but she could tell he was waiting on her. For permission or instruction, she wasn't sure, but it solidified in her mind that she now had more control over him than any person should have over another. She felt like a monster. The folded contract got slipped into her pocket and she forced a nod. "Sounds good."

She stood out of the way so Charon and Barrows could pick up the body between them. The tall ghoul glanced back at her as they left the room, as if trying to place her before leaving her sight. It wasn't until she and Winthrop had hauled Abraxo cleaner and buckets of water into the bar that she realized they were probably trying to separate her and Charon. She'd bet anything that doctor was questioning him now. Winthrop had said little, he was too stunned by the sheer amount of blood.

"I'm so sorry," she told him when they were behind the bar again, hoping he would believe her. The Geiger counter on her Pip-Boy protested when she dipped a cloth into the water to begin cleaning, but she'd just taken a dose of Rad-X. "I didn't mean for this…" She scrubbed blood out of the carpet and told him how she had managed to get Ahzrukhal to sell the contract and what had happened after. Winthrop was horrified when she revealed that Ahzrukhal had asked her to kill Greta in return for the contract. "Yeah," she told him, "before I offered him money. It sounded like something he'd been thinking about for a while."

"I wouldn't have thought…" Winthrop said to himself. He seemed disturbed and stayed quiet for a moment. "What are you going to do with his contract?"

"Uh," Truth faltered and rinsed her cloth, being careful not to submerge her hand. "I don't know," she answered quietly. "I meant to free him but it doesn't look like it'll be that simple. Ahzrukhal seemed like a piece of work, I didn't feel right leaving him here." She frowned at the blood. Maybe she'd made a mistake. Not because Charon was volatile, she could handle volatile people. And he'd seemed pleased enough to be able to kill his old boss. The look on his face when he fired was terrible, dark and full of hungry fire. She couldn't imagine what Ahzrukhal had done to incite such hate. But beyond that, maybe he didn't want her help and she was overstepping her bounds.

Her knuckles were getting raw from scrubbing. She realized Winthrop had stopped working and when she looked up he was watching her perplexedly. "Well, good luck with that."

* * *

Almost everyone had gathered in the concourse. The commotion was loud and frantic, increasing when Charon and Doctor Barrows came down the stairs carrying the body between them. Charon did not look at the crowd. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the spot where Ahzrukhal's body ended in mangled blood and bone and muscle. His and Ahzrukhal's names hissed through the crowd and he was glad when the heavy doors shut them out.

The body was heavy. The weight reassured Charon that he was free of his old employer for good. Not that he was by any means free. He still had the contract, still had an employer. Her name was Truth and she could be quiet and keep her composure. That was all he knew aside from the fact that only a certain kind of person bought a contract like his on the spot. She obviously had some sort of plan for him already. He would have to be cautious until he found out what it was.

When they left the museum, Willow approached to see what was going on. Her eyes got wide when she saw the well-dressed corpse. "Is that Ahzrukhal? But who…?"

"I did," Charon grunted.

"You?" Willow exclaimed, "Aren't you his bodyguard?"

"Not anymore."

Willow followed them to the entrance of the metro, looking bewildered. "Is everything okay in there?"

"Fine, everything's fine," Barrows assured her brusquely. "Mass panic, but no one else is hurt." He let go of the body to open the gate and Charon picked up the slack. It would have been easier from the beginning if he had carried Ahzrukhal himself. They paid no mind to the feral ghouls scratching through the rubble and left the corpse a ways down the tunnel where the animals would find it. Barrows stretched his back and turned to face Charon again. "That's really how it happened?"

Charon frowned. This was going to get annoying. "Yes, I told you what I know." Barrows looked him over critically and Charon went on. "If anyone tries to hurt her because of this, remember I will have no choice but to defend her."

Barrows' eyes narrowed and Willow glanced uneasily between them, her hand falling protectively to the gun at her hip. "Of course," the doctor said, "It won't to come to that."

"I hope not," Charon replied.

Barrows told Willow to stay at her post when they left. An attack was the last thing Underworld needed at the moment. When they returned to the Ninth Circle, Winthrop was stretching his joints and the smoothskin was still on the ground, getting the last of the blood. Her hair was falling out of its bun and her knuckles were bright pink. She glanced up briefly to acknowledge them when the door opened and Charon noted the slight jerk of her arm toward her back where she had been wearing her rifle when she walked in.

Winthrop greeted them when she did not. "Truth says Ahzrukhal was looking for someone to kill Greta." Charon's new employer stopped scrubbing to confirm the accusation. Barrows looked as if he were going to swallow his tongue. Resolving murders and murder plots was far outside the spats he usually had to settle.

"I talked him out of having me do it a few months ago," Charon added, hoping that by speaking up he and his employer would avoid more trouble.

Barrows kneaded his brow and sighed. "Alright, I'm going to try to calm everyone down," he groused and left the bar again, shaking his head.

The bar was as clean as it would get when he returned a while later. "Should I…we leave?" Truth asked when they were told everything was settled.

"You can stay the night," Barrows said wearily, "Carol will have a place for you. But then it might be best if you leave for a while." Truth nodded and thanked him. He left along with Winthrop and the Ninth Circle was empty except the two of them.

Instead of getting up to leave, the smoothskin exhaled and turned toward Charon seriously. "Thanks for backing me up," she said and after slight hesitation she continued, "I wanted to talk to you about your contract." Charon grimaced, remembering how the discussion of his contract had gone with Ahzrukhal, and sat down on a barstool beside her obediently. He took up most of the space in between and they were uncomfortably close as she unfolded the contract and laid it out on the counter again. At least he would be able to stop wondering what she had in store for him when they were done.


	10. A New Day, A New Job

Charon's brow creased. He was harder to read than Gob. "You want to…free me."

"Yes," Truth insisted, beginning to get exasperated. She'd been in this bar far too long and the smell of booze and jet and cleaner was getting to her. But it was the only place she knew of in Underworld to talk privately at the moment.

Charon was quiet for what felt like a long time, studying the contract, studying her. "I do not think that is possible," he said at last.

She'd been prepared to hear that after reading through the contract herself, but the confirmation deflated any hope she'd been hanging on to. She growled her frustration. "What about…" The writing was so hard to read. She adjusted her glasses, embarrassed that she couldn't do such a simple thing without a whole to-do, and pointed at the part she was looking for. "This, here: In the case of violence on the part of the employer…"

He shook his head immediately and Truth wilted. "I would be free of you, but I would still require an employer," he said stiffly. There was something hidden in his tone that made Truth's eyes flicker to the damp carpet.

"I see." She quieted and looked over the contract again, considering her options. She could only see one: she'd have a bodyguard from now on. With that much clear, they established rules. Or rather, Truth established rules and Charon listened, bemused, and agreed to cooperate with her terms, which were that he speak up if she, in her inexperience, were doing something foolish, or if he wanted her to pass his contract to someone else. He didn't think the contract worked that way and she only bothered to get him to agree to speak up if he felt inclined before setting the matter aside. Anything past that understanding could be dealt with after some sleep. Too much had happened that day for her to be able to really figure out how to handle this new situation.

She gathered her things wearily and they found their way to Carol's Place, Truth keeping her head down self-consciously. Carol's Place was bright and clean. The smell of cooked food hid some of the stench of age and ghoul and Truth's mouth watered, she hoped her stomach wouldn't start growling. Two ghoul women stood at the counter, talking in hushed tones, looking more than a little frazzled. They were like a portrait of contrasts: one dressed in faded pink with a face long dressed in dark lines, the other's face bright despite her worried brow and lack of skin or nose.

The dour one looked up and nodded to her companion when Truth slipped through the door with Charon towering behind her. "Oh, the smoothskin!" the second woman exclaimed, perking up a little and leaning over the counter to welcome them. "No need to look shy, Barrows said you'd be coming by. I'm Carol, I run the place with Greta here." Truth took them in, forcing a lame smile and walking forward to meet them at the counter and introduce herself. Carol's eyes moved past her and she looked up Charon, a little stunned. "It's…it's good to see you out of the bar, Charon."

Truth thought she heard him give an acknowledging grunt. Carol only faltered for a moment but her smile seemed genuine, if hesitant. "It's alright if we stay here?" Truth asked, hoping the caps she had left after buying Charon's contract would be enough to pay for a night. The thousand caps she'd given to Ahzrukhal were locked in his safe and while she could have gotten at them easily enough, she did not think Underworld would appreciate it. She trusted that Barrows or Winthrop would find it eventually and put it to good use.

"Of course it is, I've got beds all made up," Carol assured her and led the two of them into the adjoining room where beds were set up along the walls, sectioned off by screens that may have been dragged out of some old hospital. Truth glanced back at Greta as she was led and wondered if Barrows had told the ghoul innkeepers of Ahzrukhal's schemes. She saw no point in asking.

Because Quinn was out of town, there were two beds available in opposite corners of the room; one twice as big as the other. Truth set her things on the smaller bed and sat down to count her caps. Carol stood by amicably, asking Truth about her travels. The vaultie relaxed some as she talked about her trek from Megaton and how things were the same as ever out in the Wastes. She managed to get the innkeeper to tell her about Underworld and the world before the war, smiling as she listened to the old stories. Carol reminded her of Old Lady Palmer, the closest thing she'd had to a grandmother growing up.

When she handed over the caps she recalled why she had wanted to meet Carol in the first place and felt welcome enough to ask, "Hey, do you know a guy named Gob?"

Carol's face lit up. "Gob? Oh yes, he's my son!" she said excitedly, then hesitated and corrected herself while Truth tried not to smirk. "Not like you'd think of a son, of course, we ghouls don't work that way. But he's like a son to me. Why? Do you know him? Is he all right?"

The grin Truth had been wearing vanished like dust in the wind. She panicked. "Uh…" Carol's face fell and Truth knew she'd missed any chance to lie about Gob's predicament. "I think he's a slave…" she admitted quietly. Carol's heartbreak was obvious and she sank into a chair under the weight of it. Truth grimaced and leaned toward her from the bed. "He's a good friend of mine back in Megaton," she said in an effort to reassure, "he helped me out a lot when I ended up out here by myself."

Carol smiled weakly. "That's my Gob, all right," she croaked. Truth caught Greta shooting her a stern look from across the room. Carol excused herself to cry and Truth felt sick at herself.

Greta bustled over with two bowls of something hot and a scowl. "You could have lied," she hissed as she handed a bowl to Truth. The girl took the food hesitantly, she hadn't asked for any. "Carol was perfectly happy thinking he'd gone off and found his fortune."

"I'm sorry, I panicked," Truth admitted. Greta didn't care for her excuse. Embarrassed, Truth looked down at the soup and held it back out to Greta. "Um, I didn't…"

"It's on the house if you can stomach it. I know you humans can be squeamish."

"Oh," Truth said, surprised. It looked edible, she'd certainly eaten far worse than squirrel stew. "Thank you."

Greta stiffened and hesitated. "It was Carol's idea." Before Truth could call into doubt her own lie, the ghoul woman moved past her to hand the other bowl to Charon and muttered a few quiet words to him. He glanced at Truth uncertainly but when she pretended not to notice he took the food and nodded solemnly at whatever Greta was saying.

Truth's pretending not to pay him mind became real when another patron of Carol's, a ghoul who'd come in while she was counting caps, leaned over from the table in the middle of the room. "Hey," he rasped, "I want to talk to you." Truth raised her eyebrows at him questioningly, unable to answer as she tried not to spit out a mouthful of "squirrel." "Yeah, you," the ghoul persisted. "What's the matter? Never seen a ghoul up close before?"

The guilt and embarrassment Truth felt turned quickly to irritation and it took all of her self-control to swallow instead of spitting her mouthful of soup at him. She'd been in the city of ghouls all day, after all. "Of course I have," she snapped, "I didn't crawl out of a Vault yesterday."

He was far too well dressed for the wasteland, better than anyone else in Underworld except maybe Ahzrukhal, and he had an air of unsavory business about him. He laughed at her outburst. "Yeah? You got a problem with us?"

"…Obviously not."

"Even if I called you a milk-sucking, mutant loving, water-stealing daughter of a whore?"

Truth bristled. Her mother was a brilliant scientist; she might as well have been a saint for what she tried to do for the wasteland. "Now you're just being antagonizing," she glowered, forcing herself to stay calm, "What do you want?"

The ghoul's green face hardened but he finally answered her. "I thought you might be able to help me. I could use a decent human like you."

"…I don't think I trust you."

"The feeling's mutual, smoothskin, but that's never stopped a business deal."

Truth shrugged wearily, forcing down another bite of soup, and nodded for him to continue. He leaned forward conspiratorially, introduced himself as Mr. Crowley.

"Before I go on, you don't have anything against killing, do you?"

Truth stopped herself from answering too quickly, instead shoving another mouthful of gristly stew into her mouth. It would be harder to down if she let it cool, after all. In truth, she'd come to find satisfaction in killing when somebody deserved it, more than she was comfortable admitting. She wasn't a monster. After some thought she said honestly "Not if it's for the right cause."

"Or the right amount, yeah?" He ignored her offended snarl and went on, telling her about a list he had of the worst ghoul bigots in the wasteland, people who thought even sane ghouls needed to killed and maintained that it should be done with a shot to the head like in the old zombie films, a reference Truth only understood because of the Vault's small library of entertainment tapes. Her soup became harder to eat the more Mr. Crowley spoke. She was sick with anger and dread. "So," Crowley asked finally, "Are you in?"

"I can look into it…"

"No," Mr. Crowley growled, "Either you will or you won't. I need someone who will commit."

"Fine, I'll do it," she conceded tersely. If these people were as bad as he said, they deserved it.

"Wonderful. I'll pay you, of course, but I have to know they're dead. I'll hear about Tenpenny, but from the others bring back something that belongs to them, like a… like a key." Truth agreed tiredly, perplexed as she was about him wanting a key rather than a ring or something.

Thinking their business was finished, Truth attempted to finish the last of her cooling soup and turned her mind back to the problem of Charon's contract, but Mr. Crowley knelt beside his rented bed and from beneath it pulled a quality rifle fitted with a scope.

"Take this," he said, handing it to her without ceremony and an aghast and irritable Greta snapped "Crowley!" from across the room where she sat on a bed with Carol. Mr. Crowley ignored her with nothing more than a roll of his eyes. "You're going to need it."

Truth drew back. "No, I'm good." She pointed at her pack. "I've got guns." She glanced around nervously and noted Charon watching the exchange with a creased brow. Before she could decipher what it meant, Mr. Crowley was forcing the gun into her hands, saying, "Those shit guns won't last you. I want this done right."

Sighing, she finally had to accept the gun. He left her alone then, to finish forcing down soup and testing the weight of the new gun on her own.

* * *

While the smoothskin attended to things, Charon stood at a short distance, giving her enough room to conduct business but staying near enough that he felt he could intervene if the high tensions in Underworld turned against her. Nothing of the sort happened, despite Greta's hissing and Crowley's provocations, and he let himself accept food and thanks from Greta. The most alarming thing aside from Crowley's name calling was his employer trying to refuse the gun the other ghoul offered her. It was in much better condition than her own weapons and her refusal shocked him more than her taking Crowley's job. Mercenaries came in all packages, after all. Why a mercenary would want to free him and lose a spare gun she didn't have to share profits with was beyond him and hardly mattered. Whatever her reasoning, he wasn't going anywhere.

He was mildly relieved when she reluctantly accepted the new rifle and inspected it, handling it like holding a gun was as natural to her as wearing clothes. When she finished her inspection and her food, she took a deep breath and approached him again.

"I figure you should take the bigger bed," she said, "since you're twice my size. So get some rest and we'll head out in the morning."

Charon hesitated. With tensions so high, he couldn't bring himself to stop guarding her long enough to sleep, and probably couldn't ease the anxiety that he might have to shoot someone else from Underworld enough to sleep either. His loyalty to Underworld was born of living among people who had faced at least a few of his own trials in becoming ghouls and who he knew and was familiar with despite being an outsider. That sort of loyalty could not win out in the face of his loyalty to this new smoothskin, born of the programming, and he would not be able to relax until he could get out of Underworld without the contract making him hurt anyone he knew again.

"I would prefer to stand guard," he admitted.

The smoothskin looked uncomfortable. "Here?"

"Yes."

"…Tomorrow I've gotta deal with ferals and super mutants," she said with her arms crossed. Charon's stomach churned. Knowing nothing of her ability, he could at least see that her weapons and armor were shit. "So if you're going with me it'd probably be best to rest up. This is the last safe place I'll have to sleep for a while."

If she was trying to reassure him, she was doing a poor job, but he acquiesced with a quiet sigh. "If that is what you wish, I will try."

She nodded approvingly and then must have noticed her authoritative stance because she relaxed her arms deliberately. "…Do you need anything before we leave? I've got food, ammunition, and medical supplies. I'll split what I have with you."

Charon took a moment to take stock of his small supply of ammunition before shaking his head. He had few personal belongings, nothing that needed to be gathered. "I am ready to leave when you are."

Satisfied with that, she bade him goodnight. As she cleared the bed of her belongings, Charon tried to ignore that one of her rifles looked like it hadn't been maintained in months and another looked to be missing parts altogether and she intended to face super mutants and ferals with them. The unease in him mounted with every second he tried to ignore it. Maintenance was not part of his contract and if he started out doing extra for her, she would demand extra later, try to turn him into a slave again. But if her weapons failed her in the middle of a fight, it was very possible she'd get killed despite his efforts. She showed no intention of cleaning the damn things herself and his brain screamed protect, protect, protect!

"Mistress?" he found himself saying – apparently a mistake because the smoothskin's shoulders tensed up and she turned back to him with a pained expression.

"You can just call me Truth, okay?"

Charon nodded. "If you prefer that. I can repair your weapons if you wish."

"What? No, you don't have to."

He considered her words and weighed them against her earlier order to speak up. "They would work better. Do you plan to do it?"

She became flustered at that. "I…don't know how."

Charon did not know if offering to teach her would anger her and chose to tread lightly, offering to fix them again instead. She was reluctant but in the end she handed over a battered rifle and pistol, but not the bigger gun comprised of a steam gauge assembly and pieces of wood that looked worse. When he asked she told him it was only half built. It turned out she had the parts she needed and ample blueprints. But she if she couldn't repair her own guns there was no chance she could build one from scratch.

She showed him the blueprints and he found himself conflicted. The gun was impractical in every way. Too big, too slow, ammunition consisting of railroad spikes… it was ridiculous. But at the same time, he recalled how building his own gun had eased the burden he carried somewhat. And helping her with this project might convince her he was capable and make the rest of their relationship easier to swallow, make her more amenable to suggestion than Ahzrukhal had been. He offered.

She was wide awake again in an instant, her eyes filled with hunger and anticipation that overrode whatever had kept her from wanting him to do anything for her. She got out the needed parts and they took over the table that was unused now that everyone but Carol had gone to bed.

The smoothskin – Truth, he reminded himself again – hovered beside him, helping as she knew how but just watching quietly for the most part. When Charon finished and handed the gun back to her, she was surprised by the weight and almost dropped it. But then she hefted it to her shoulder, testing the weight, examining his handiwork appreciatively. It was awkward in her hands, bigger than the guns she'd been using. She set it down on the table and thanked him quietly.

"…Sure," he grunted unsurely and reached for her assault rifle to begin cleaning. In his peripheral he noticed a wavering in his employer. He dissembled her gun.

"Could you teach me how to do it myself?" she asked suddenly. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do it for me."

"If you wish," Charon answered, relieved that he wouldn't have to decide whether to press the issue himself. "Can you get this far?" he asked, motioning at the dissembled parts. A shade of embarrassment crossed her face and Charon quickly put her gun back together and started again, slowly, showing her each step until she could do it herself.

She understood quickly enough once she could see how everything fit together and her hands were agile and precise with the small pieces. "I always had someone to fix my stuff growing up," she explained at one point, "and now I just pick up any gun that's better than the one I'm using. But if this railway rifle works well, I want to keep it up."

When she did go to bed, she was pleased with herself and he was mildly reassured. She was courteous and willing to learn, good signs that this employment would not be as bad as the last. She was asleep by the time he finished cleaning his own gun and nobody had tried to start more trouble so, because she had insisted, he took to the bed Carol had made up for him.

Through his unease he was shocked at how comfortable it was to lie in an actual bed that gave under his weight. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in a bed. It was strange and he still slept nervously, waking every hour or so to make sure all was well.

If the smoothskin had similar trouble sleeping, it wasn't obvious and she was still soundly asleep when he rose early in the morning. She didn't wake up until after eight and when she did she seemed momentarily confused, unsure of where she was. But she recovered quickly and after sharing a breakfast with Charon and a brief conversation with Carol where the smoothskin took a letter addressed to Gob into her care, they were ready to go.

Once they left Underworld, she surprised him by heading for the museum's west wing rather than outside. "I'm helping some runaways. They asked me to get some old photographs from here," she said, "and later I'm gonna try to clear the Lincoln Memorial of super mutants for them."

Charon nodded, grumbling to himself that at least he knew her weapons would hold up now, and followed. She had the old assault rifle in hand when she pushed the door to the first floor halls open, not the new rifle Crowley had given her or the railway rifle she'd been so excited about. She hadn't had a chance to see how either fired so that was practical enough, Charon supposed, making sure his own gun was loaded as the door fell shut behind them.

A growl filled the air in answer to the sound of the door and then they were surrounded by ferals that were emaciated beyond resemblance to their old selves. They ran at the smoothskin, the scent of her unruined flesh reading as fresh meat to them, and she and Charon shot them down as they ran out of the adjoining rooms and down the stairs. Charon was disappointed to find that after seventy years guarding a bar, fighting in a chaotic setting did not come as easily as it should have. At the same time, he welcomed the chaos and commotion as old friends. The violence and adrenaline was refreshingly different from the quiet monotony of Underworld – this was what he was built for.

His employer managed herself well enough that he could forgive himself the rust on his abilities and he pulled through when it counted. She ducked behind a broken pillar to reload just as another feral shambled down the stairs toward her.

"Hey, hey!" Charon bellowed from across the room, causing the feral to falter long enough to fix it in his sights and fire. His employer looked out from behind the pillar, gun at the ready, in time to see the feral ghoul collapse and shot a broad grin at Charon before getting up.

When the ferals stopped coming at them, the smoothskin did a round of the first floor, happily picking up caps and other useful things she found, to see that nothing else would jump out of them, then dropped her pack on a counter in what had been a cafeteria. She wrestled the railway rifle out of her things and loaded it with railroad spikes, took aim at the doorway across the room as Charon stood out of the way and watched with mild interest.

The chamber whistled when she fired and the kickback nearly knocked her into the wall behind her. On the other side of the room, the railroad spike lodged into the wall to the left of the doorway with a loud thunk. Grumbling, she adjusted her posture and braced better before firing again twice. The shots were closer to the doorway, but still hit off to the left. Charon helped her make adjustments to the barrel and sights until it fired correctly. By then she was grinning in spite of herself, delighted with the weight and power of the gun, and she thanked him a few times as she inspected the railroad spikes lodged in the wall and succeeded in retrieving a few of them.

The railway rifle stayed in her hands as they searched the rest of the wing for the photographs she was looking for and, whatever Charon thought of its practicality, she was pleased enough with its performance to stop to inspect the wounds it left with poorly disguised fascination and to carry it out of the museum when they left with every intention to keep using it.


	11. Union Seat

Super mutant corpses littered the dirt path up to the Lincoln Memorial. Charon scanned the ruin before them as Truth knelt to inspect the massive green bodies and take what she could carry. The four figures guarding the steps of the Memorial were too small to be super mutants, but too well armed to be regular wastelanders. He bent to point this out to her just as one of the men guarding the steps shouted at them to stop where they were. The smoothskin jerked upright immediately, her hands spread out before her non-threateningly, her brow creased.

Charon stood up more slowly, hesitating to put his hands up. They stood close together so he could not tell whether the guard's rifle was aimed at the smoothskin or himself, but he stood a couple feet ahead of her. He could get in the way of an attack if he had to.

"What do you think you're doing here?" the guard shouted down the path.

There was no immediate answer from Truth and Charon glanced over his shoulder to catch her eyes flicker between him and the Memorial's guard. She hid her panic behind an awkward mask. With a deep breath and much to Charon's chagrin she took a nervous step forward, causing the guard to tighten his grip on the rifle. The other figures patrolling the front of the Memorial were taking notice and Charon saw their guns turn toward him and his employer as well. He threw an arm out in front of her to stop her from walking any further and she halted stiffly, her voice dying in her throat.

She tried again, shouted up the path, "We were just curious, we don't want any trouble!"

"Then you might want to turn around," the guard called back. Charon willed her to agree, his heart pounding as he watched the gunmen for any signs of movement. They had all the information they needed about the old ruin already: The slaves could not live here.

"I-I just wanted to look around, I didn't mean any harm," Truth called back, a forced laugh covering the tremor in her voice, "I've got stuff to trade, if that makes a difference. …A few caps, too!"

Charon set his jaw and repressed a groan. She was asking to get robbed.

At the base of the stairs, the guard relaxed his grip on the gun and beckoned them up the path. Truth stepped past Charon and he grabbed her shoulder to stop her. "What are you doing?" he growled in her ear. She flinched. "They will shoot you."

She looked startled when she pushed his hand off her shoulder, her smooth fingers unhooking his gnarled ones cautiously, and he let his hand fall like so much dead weight to his side. He had not thought before grabbing her but she probably did not appreciate being touched by a ghoul.

"They might not," was all she said, in a mutter, "I've gotta scope the place out."

"It is not safe."

"Yeah, well," she scowled flatly in response and made sure to put her rifle away before continuing up the path without another word. Charon followed suit. He marched up behind her, pushing aside his worries of any offense his employer might feel toward him and fixing the guard with a hard look of warning as he sized them up.

* * *

"Go see Leroy," the guard was saying, eyeing her critically. She felt especially vulnerable without a gun in hand but she thought her investigation might go smoother if she didn't insist on remaining armed. "But stick to the dirt path, we have orders to shoot anyone who sets foot on the stairs. Tell him Silas let you in." Truth agreed and kept walking past the barricade of sandbags. She hadn't expected the Memorial to be so heavily fortified, with the perimeter patrolled by well-trained, well-armed guards. These were no simple raiders, this was an operation.

The dirt path led her to a storeroom beneath the Memorial. Charon followed her inside and stood by the door, looking as tense as ever. His eyes hadn't stopped scanning their surroundings since they left the Museum of History. She could still feel the weight of his hand on her shoulder, it was strangely nice even though she'd jumped when he grabbed her. From the Tunnel Snakes of the Vault to the raiders and scavengers of the Wasteland, hands on her person were usually an immediate danger, an assertion of power over her, but his touch had not been a threat. He felt solid and that gave her comfort she hadn't been looking for.

Leroy Walker was a mean looking man whose thick, dark hair was carefully shaved except for a strip down the middle of his head and who wore heavy, metal armor. He greeted them brusquely. Truth fed him the lie about trading and he showed her what they had to spare as she sorted through the ammunition and spare parts she and Charon had picked up in the Museum of History.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him sizing up her and Charon and the look of disgust he gave the ghoul.

"You're probably wondering what we're doing here," he said as she stacked tin boxes.

That gave her pause as she decided how nosy to be. "Yeah, actually. It looks like you're getting ready for war."

"You're a sharp one," Leroy chuckled, and Truth frowned at the condescension in his tone. "We're from Paradise Falls…"

He stopped suddenly at the confusion on her face. She'd heard of it of course, in passing from various folk and on the radio, but she had not been able to cobble together what it was aside from very bad. She had almost come to believe that it was as real a place as Rockopolis or the Garden of Eden rather than a physical location that armed gunmen came out of. "…What is Paradise Falls?" she asked cautiously.

Both Leroy and Charon looked incredulous, though Charon managed to recover before she had time to look at him twice. "You're not from around here, are you?" Leroy asked, giving her a second look-over.

Truth hesitated, then shook her head and told him she was not. It was true enough.

"Mistress," Charon's gravelly voice spoke up, startling her, the epithet digging up the fresh guilt over his contract again. She barely hid her scowl, a small feat next to hiding the cold wash of fear that followed Charon's next words. "Paradise Falls is the biggest slaver operation in the Capital Wasteland."

He said it casually, as if it were nothing to be alarmed at, and Leroy smiled proudly. "That's right. The only operation in the Capital, you might say. We're hunting runaway slaves. Have you seen any?"

Truth's face had gone pale and she tried to recover her stony expression quickly despite her fear and anger. If the slaves of the Temple of the Union had come to investigate the Memorial on their own they would have been forced back into slavery before they even knew what was going on. Perhaps that was their true intent in sending her, to avoid walking straight into a slaver outpost. "No, can't say I have," she answered and handed Leroy the boxes of ammunition she could trade, scolding herself for giving them more ammunition now that she had to find a way to take them down.

"That's a shame," he said. While he collected a comparable amount of food, a few boxes of mashed potatoes and Salisbury steak, she glanced around the room, wondering if the thick stone walls were enough to muffle a gunshot. With the commotion between the super mutants and the Brotherhood of Steel going on outside, they might have been. "You'll tell us if you hear anything, of course."

The thought fizzled when he handed the food to her. "Of course." She couldn't kill him without a plan, without knowing how many others there were and whether she could take them. She wanted to avoid the disaster she'd gotten herself into at Evergreen Mills. She packed the food away with her other belongings. "Can I look around before I go? I wanted to see the ruin."

"You can see it just fine from the pond," Leroy said a little sharply, before explaining that they were trying to keep slaves from turning the Memorial into a safe haven for runaways. In fact, they planned to demolish the Memorial once their work was done. That revelation renewed Truth's sense of urgency and she left the room shortly afterward, though not before Leroy invited them to visit the Museum of History and retrieve any memorabilia of the Great Emancipator Lincoln so the slavers could burn it, offering to pay handsomely.

Truth was cringing when they finally got out the door into the bright afternoon light, her thoughts spinning with fury at everything that had happened in the storeroom. She turned to Charon in a huff. "I told you not to call me 'Mistress.'"

The ghoul's mouth held a hard line that didn't betray any emotion and he only said "He warmed up to you as soon as he thought you were a slaveholder."

Her stomach did a shame filled flip-flop but her anger toward him quelled. She certainly felt an awful lot like a slaveholder. "Thanks," she said bitterly, "good thinking. I still don't like it." He nodded and grunted either acquiescence or an apology. She frowned, muttering an apology of her own, and looked around at the stone walls hiding them from view to hide her disgrace.

The dirt path continued around the corner toward the back of the ruin. "…Wait here," she whispered and dropped her pack at Charon's feet. Removing her pistol from its holster, she crept around the corner with her back to the brick, standing up on tiptoe occasionally to peek over the wall. On this side of the ruin there was a guard at both the front and back corners and a suspicious piece of piping and wire discreetly spanning a hole in the side of the building. She clung to the wall so they wouldn't see her and made her way through the scraggly bushes. On the path winding its way around the building, about halfway back, she saw where landmines had been partially buried in the dirt. Having those disarmed before she tried to fight here would be a boon but she doubted she could make it to the path without being seen.

Instead she made her way back to a worried looking Charon, brushed dirt and twigs off her skirt and armor, and led the way away from the Memorial, back toward the Museum of History until they could step out of sight behind an abandoned building.

Truth peered around the corner at the Lincoln Memorial, trying to size it up. "…How many of them do you think there are? I've gotta get rid of all of them."

"More than one of them has a scope, be cautious," Charon warned sternly instead of answering her. She withdrew from sight immediately and looked at him expectantly. She felt bad dragging him into this, but she had to admit it would help to have his insight before she stormed the Memorial. "There are four along the front…" he said finally, the ruined skin of his brow creased in thought. He expected three to guard the back of the Memorial as well, and for there to be others inside the ruin so they could rotate watch. At least eleven total, he figured.

She nodded thoughtfully. "And there were land mines buried along the path, they probably go all the way around." He agreed. "I saw a hole in the wall but it was rigged up with a tripwire. Any other holes probably are too. But I can disarm them, and the mines." She looked up at him, trying not to feel a little proud of her boast. Moira's assignments had at least given her the chance to learn useful skills. "So…think we can take them?"

"Two against eleven are not promising odds. It would be safer to walk away."

Truth scowled. "I promised to help these people."

"Why didn't they send somebody with you? They had to know it would be dangerous."

"Maybe because they've got people out looking for them and I don't," she said sourly. "We could go and ask for their help but it'd take almost a week to get back and I don't want to risk any of them being slaves again. Besides, only a couple of them are good with a gun. We'd have to protect the rest."

The ghoul sighed and grumbled, "Two more guns would make this much easier…" He moved to crouch by the corner of the building and briefly peeked out from cover. "May I see the gun Crowley gave you?"

The request surprised Truth. She retrieved the rifle and handed it over, then waited in grateful anticipation as he surveyed the Memorial through the scope. "…Are you a sharpshooter?" she asked after a moment.

At first, he didn't answer. He only adjusted his grip on the gun and continued watching through the scope for nearly a minute, breathing slowly and evenly in silence. Then his shoulders relaxed and he shook his head solemnly. "It has been too long." There was a weary edge to his voice.

They decided that picking off the slavers from a distance would only get them so far anyway but they were able to pick out some of the gaps in the slavers' defenses. The next few hours were spent devising a plan as the day grew dark around them. Truth tried to pretend that he took the planning so seriously out of a shared sense of purpose rather than out of an obligation to her. At times she was able to convince herself for a moment or two.

* * *

When it was dark enough that they looked like little more than shadows if they moved carefully, Truth and Charon marched back up to the Lincoln Memorial and greeted a surprised Silas.

"You again?"

"Me again," Truth answered dryly and set down her pack, "Leroy said to come back if we found any reminders of the Great Emancipator. So we went digging through the Museum of History and…" She opened the pack and pulled out a long paper tube, unrolled it to reveal the John Wilkes Booth wanted poster she'd picked up that morning. Charon had grumbled when she spent an extra hour going through every drawer and shelf in the museum for spare parts and caps and ended up shoving every souvenir with Lincoln's face on it into her bag as well, but it was coming in handy now. Silas' eyebrows shot up and he wasted no time letting them through to see Leroy.

In the storeroom, they found Leroy sitting by the radio near the door, with his feet up on the table and a bowl of noodles in his hands. "You weren't gone long," he commented.

"Thought you might want some of the stuff we found at the museum," Truth explained, cringing internally and smoothing her tattered skirt nervously. If she was supposed to look like a slaveholder, perhaps she needed to stop referring to her and Charon as a unit. If she wanted to be courteous of the fact that Charon didn't have much of a say in this endeavor, she probably needed to stop referring to them as a unit as well. The entire situation she found herself in was uncomfortable, to say the least. She showed Leroy the poster she had shown Silas and that got his attention more than any slaver gaffes she might have been making.

He led her into the adjoining space, away from the ham radio, shrugging his way past Charon. Truth managed to stay on the far side of him so that if he had a mind to be suspicious he had to divide his attention. She dug the memorabilia out of her bag – a copy of the Gettysburg Address, a collection of old world pennies with the Great Emancipator's face printed on them, a doll bearing his likeness, and other things – and argued with Leroy over how many caps keeping each item out of the hands of slaves was worth. Charon leaned against the wall on Leroy's other side, watching them intently.

When she had Leroy turned toward her and engrossed in the argument over payment, Charon stepped away from the wall quietly. He moved so smoothly she almost looked away from her business to watch him. Too late, Leroy heard the footsteps behind him and began to turn around, hand moving to the gun on his hip. By then Charon's hands were wrapped around his head. With one sharp motion the ghoul snapped Leroy's neck and let his body fall to the ground at Truth's feet.

Looking up at Charon then, seeing the slight smile pulling at his lips as he looked down at the dead slaver, Truth was struck by the raw power in him, impressed even though she'd been expecting it.

She stepped away from him and turned around, heard him kneel down and go through Leroy's pouches when her hands flew to the zip on her dress. Off came the pale green fabric that would only make her easier to see in the dark, leaving her in armored pants and her undershirt, and on came the thick armored jacket.

When she was dressed, she shoved the unused clothes and her belongings back into her bag and double checked that her weapons were in order. They shut off the lights, including the light on her Pip-Boy's screen, before leaving the storeroom so none would spill out the door and alert the slavers.

"Remember," she muttered to him as they crept around the corner of the Memorial, "keep off the path. It'll only be safe behind me."

Charon grunted an affirmative and pulled the large knife from his belt. He moved along the wall, climbing up the side of the platform and hiding in the shadows between the pillars when Truth signaled that it was safe. With him in position, she snuck along the path, moving lightly over the packed earth to the first partially buried mine. She stopped a couple feet away and leaned forward, scooped a layer of dirt away. A high pitched beep sang into the air and Truth quickly ripped out the wires connecting the timer to the detonator. The beep became silence in the still air.

She looked over her shoulder. The guards on either end of the building looked tense at the noise but did not leave their posts. She moved to the next mine. This time, when the beeping was cut short, the guard at the front corner turned and walked down the side of the Memorial, peering carefully into the dark. Truth hunched down and waited.

It happened quickly. Charon's large shadow slipped out of hiding and grabbed the guard from behind. There was little struggle. Truth saw the moonlight glint off the knife at the guard's throat and then Charon was setting the body down between the columns of the ruin. She got back to work.

By the time she reached the bend in the path, Charon had killed the guard positioned on the back corner as well. The first shout came shortly after that. Truth looked up to see Charon run at the man sounding the alarm and the guard fell before he had time to fire a shot. There were shouts coming from other parts of the Memorial now, though, and the slavers scrambled to figure out what was going on. Not wasting any time, Charon grabbed his shotgun and gunned down the last slaver guarding the back of the building.

After that, the Memorial was in chaos. Truth gave up on the mines and grabbed her railway rifle just as a slaver came around from the front of the building and spotted her. Their gun went to their shoulder and Truth threw herself on the ground. The gunshot reached her ears just after the cold beep of a triggered mine. She rolled away from the sound quick as she could, into the bushes, and shrieked at the hard impact of dirt and hot air that hit her in the back, tempered some by her backpack and the brambles she was lying in.

When the dust cleared, her ears were ringing. She pushed herself off the ground and looked around hazily. One of the slavers was walking through the bushes toward her, no doubt looking for a body. She barely heard the whistle of her gun when she fired at the widest part of them, but the slaver fell to the ground. She made sure they were dead before running shakily up to the platform to help Charon. Worryingly, he was nowhere to be seen and she had trouble keeping track of her enemies when she couldn't hear their shouts and footsteps in the dark. It was utter confusion and she struggled to keep calm in the midst of it.

Someone grabbed her roughly from behind and, panicking, she twisted and drove the butt of her rifle into the slaver's gut. They wrestled to the ground until Truth broke free long enough to smash his face with her gun, repeatedly. He stopped moving and she took cover between a column and a wall to keep from being snuck up on again and waited for the next person who came cleanly into her sight. There was blood on the grip of her rifle and she grimaced as she nestled it back into the crook of her shoulder and felt it wet on her neck and cheek.

Her hearing came back in slow patches of sporadic gunfire. As the roaring quiet died, she heard a rasping voice shouting with relish above the din, "What's the matter? Can't stand the sight of your own blood?"

Hearing his voice was a great relief, she hadn't gotten him killed yet with this stunt. Truth moved out of her hiding place enough to see a slaver bleeding and tripping over himself to get behind cover. He didn't make it before Charon fired twice into his chest and he collapsed. His body wasn't moving when Charon inspected it briefly, but the ghoul unloaded another round into his skull regardless. In the flickering lantern light, she couldn't tell if he was snarling or grinning when he did it.

Across the open space, Truth spotted Silas crouched against the statue of Lincoln, trying to reload his gun with a wounded arm. She caught him in her sites and with a whistle from her gun he was screaming and sprawled out on the ground, grasping at the railspike lodged in his hip. Truth hopped up and unsteadily walked past Charon searching the rest of the interior to close the space. Silas saw her coming and fumbled for the gun he'd dropped. He fired one shot that flew wide before she pulled the trigger again and quieted his screaming.

* * *

The fighting did not last long after that. Once the only sound of gunfire came from the trenches across the mall, Charon and the smoothskin made sure all of the slavers were dead and dragged their bodies out of the Memorial.

Now she sat at Lincoln's feet, with dirt and blood on her face and her hair fallen out of its bun in an orange tangle, blotting blood out of the wood of her gun with a scrap of fabric and looking pleased with herself. He was pleased too as he looked down the Memorial steps at the pile they had made of the bodies. It felt as though he had taken some vengeance for his time at Paradise Falls and that made the fighting all the more invigorating.

Seemingly at little cost, too. He finished taping a bandage over the wound left by a bullet that had grazed him and approached her with the medical supplies.

"Are you hurt?" he asked gruffly and offered them to her.

There were scrapes all over her and one ear shone red in the unsteady light as if burned. The explosion earlier had sent a pang of terror through him, but here she was alive. She grinned up at him tiredly, her cheeks still flushed from the excitement, and took the supplies from his hands. "Just a little banged up," she answered warmly, "Thanks for the help, Charon."


	12. Breathless

They spent the rest of the night at the Memorial, taking turns standing watch on the great steps. Usually when she had to sleep out in the wastes, she barricaded herself into a supply closet in the metros and slept sitting with her back against a wall and a loaded gun in hand. Jerking awake at every sound, both real and imagined, it never lasted more than a couple hours and it was never restful. Having Charon nearby was surprisingly reassuring, and Truth was grateful, but she still slept with her hand wrapped around the handle of her knife.

The next morning, they retrieved the mines she disarmed the night before and reset them along the path leading up to the Memorial to discourage anyone else from moving in while they were gone.

After a long argument about what they should take and what needed to be left behind, they figured out a route that would take them directly north, through D. C. and straight into the wasteland beyond. Charon assured her it was not as direct as the maps they consulted made it look but if it meant not having to double back through super mutant territory or stray too close to Rivet City where she might run into her father, Truth thought it would be best.

When they passed into the metro neighboring the Lincoln Memorial and the constant commotion of the surface was shut out by heavy doors, Truth realized the quiet around them was warped. She tugged at her ears, trying to shake them back into functioning. "My ears are still ringing from that explosion…" she grumbled.

"How are your eyes?" Charon asked uneasily.

She blinked up at him and quipped, "I can see you scowling at me, they're fine." He didn't look amused at that. Truth shouldered her weapon awkwardly, turned her face away from him in embarrassment. "They're fine," she repeated.

Normally, the old subways were a quiet cacophony of settling concrete and stubbornly buzzing fluorescent lights punctuated by voices and footsteps that echoed down the tunnels and alerted her to other creatures' presence. Now she had trouble telling echoed voices from the groaning of the tracks. Having Charon behind her threw her off as well. His footsteps confused her and his presence at her back disrupted her sense of space and made her anxious and jumpy.

Nonetheless, it was nice to be below ground again, with a ceiling over her head and walls closing in on either side so she only had to worry about danger coming from a couple of directions. The stench was a fair trade to avoid being out in the open. She tried to get Charon to talk to her as they walked, but neither of them were interested in sharing their own stories and her ringing ears made him hard to understand anyway. They fell back into silence except when he communicated some threat to her.

The tunnel led them into the square blocks of tall, brick tenements and office buildings surrounding the national mall. Truth had never been to this pocket of D. C. before and the alien layout confused her as soon as she left the subway. Luckily, Charon was not fazed and he seemed familiar with the area so Truth let him lead her past the abodes of raiders and super mutants and north through the proper metros.

Obviously they couldn't avoid fighting entirely, but Charon startled her by loudly instigating he fights he thought they could not avoid. Truth had a bad habit of rushing into battle herself, but she had learned to try to start them quietly at least. Maybe he was trying to get the jump on the opposition and draw fire away from Truth, which he did well, but it gave her little time to size up the people shooting at her. She repeatedly found herself unexpectedly surrounded by gunfire and scrambling for a target, half of the time unable to tell whether Charon was yelling at her to find cover or to help him through the bubble of her ringing ears.

He did keep her safe as they trekked through the old city streets and they made better time than Truth might have had she tried to navigate the ruins on her own, but every time she had to take cover suddenly while he taunted raiders and super mutants, she became more irritated.

She was nearly spitting when he rushed her into the safety of a stairwell leading to the next station and she finally had the chance to round on him in anger, snapping to attention like a pre-war action doll and gripping her gun with white-knuckled hands. "I need some warning before you start shooting," she snarled up at him.

A hint of alarm flashed across his face and was gone the next moment, replaced by his usual blank frown. "Of course," he answered her calmly, "I am sorry. I meant to keep them from targeting you."

"Well you're gonna get yourself shot and you're drawing every raider on the block!"

The ghoul's jaw tightened. "I know what I am doing. Pardon this, Truth, but you do not watch what is going on around you. If you did, I would not be taking you off guard."

The corners of Truth's mouth pulled ever downward as the fault fell on her. "I'm half deaf," she hissed, "I do too watch what's going on."

"No," Charon corrected her, "you do not. You failed to in Underworld and at the Memorial. Now, once again, you are not watching so I am doing it for you."

Truth cringed. She'd been trying so hard to make sure she held her own. How she was supposed to watch everything around her, she did not know, but she'd have to figure it out. She took a deep breath and tried to relax, squelching the thought in the back of her head telling her she was being a jerk. "Fine, I'll keep a better eye out."

"…And I shall endeavor to give you better warning." She could not tell how annoyed he was with her.

But that would do. She meant it and he was required to mean it. "Thanks, good." She forced herself to break out of her hostile stance and stepped toward the tunnel entrance.

Charon hesitated, distracted by something across the street. He touched her shoulder briefly and told her to wait a moment before creeping back up the stairs to look around. There was nothing there, no lurking raiders or sudden ambush, and he came back to her with one eye cast suspiciously behind him. "I thought I saw something, be cautious."

Truth rolled her eyes. She'd already lost count of how many times he had told her to be cautious since leaving Underworld. But she tried to keep her promise and watched the area around her with a swiveling head and peeled eyes and he did manage to give her some fair warning before shooting something. They made it all the way to Chevy Chase without having to scold each other again.

"There is only one more train to catch before we leave the city," Charon informed her so dryly as they entered yet another empty train station that she almost failed to catch the joke. The station here was as desolate as the rest, though filled with a light smoke, and Truth had never seen a train that wasn't a rusting metal shell or an image in a textbook or on a holotape. When she did get it, she laughed and the sound echoed off the crumbling concrete ceiling. The broken tension between her and Charon making it hard for her to stop until he shushed her and told her to get her gun ready as he turned to watch behind them, listening carefully.

A group of raiders had followed them into Tenleytown Station and were closing in on the tunnel behind them. When they saw Charon turn around and raise his shotgun, they charged, screaming obscenities. Truth and Charon moved backwards to take advantage of the curve in the tunnel, spreading out to either side of the track to get a wider range of fire as the raiders ran at them. They were so pumped full of chems that they didn't seem to notice being shot unless the injury was nearly fatal.

Charon's yelling was almost louder than that of the raiders, he sounded bloodthirsty and the noise of his hate bouncing off the walls and distorted by her dampened ears was more chilling than her own laughter. The ruckus was so loud that Truth didn't notice the second group of raiders until she had beaten one of the group from Chevy Chase to the ground with the butt of her rifle, shot him in the head, and crouched against the wall to reload her gun while Charon covered her.

They were coming from the opposite direction when she looked up, presumably to investigate the noise Charon and the raiders of Chevy Chase were making. Truth swore and curled into a ball as she finished reloading, trying to make herself as small a target as possible. They were still in the alcove connecting their tunnel to the one that ran parallel, out of Charon's line of sight. She shouted a warning at him just as they spilled into the tunnel.

At first she was afraid they were backup but after firing a few addled shots at her, much of their attention turned toward the first group of raiders. Truth and Charon were quickly caught in the middle of a turf battle and they couldn't simply slip away while everyone was distracted – they were outsiders and intruders to both sides.

Charon ended up in the midst of them, taunting anyone who dared attack him or his employer with offers to show them their own blood, and then delivering. Truth worked her way around the edges of the fight, trying to keep her back to the walls so nobody could sneak up on her and shooting at raiders who were distracted or who broke from the fighting to come at her.

The second group of raiders had something like soot on their hands and bodies and seemed to have brought the smoke with them. It became so thick it burned Truth's eyes and scratched at her throat. She ducked into the connecting alcove and coughed, looked around for the source of the smoke. There was no light here to suggest a fire, but a wrecked train and rubble blocked most of the tunnel toward the next station, Friendship. It seemed the soot covered raiders had set something on fire before running over to defend their territory.

She could still pick out Charon through the smoke because he was easily a head taller than everyone else in the fray. The others were reduced to hazy silhouettes, apparently a problem for the ghoul because he stopped shooting and started brawling instead. He shouted her name over the din, loud enough for her to make it out. A shade of concern tinged his voice.

"I'm here! I'm fine!" Truth shouted back. One of the raiders hopped up on the platform and came at her with a nailboard. Truth hoisted her rifle to her shoulder again but before she could pull the trigger the raider jolted and collapsed at her feet. Startled, Truth took a step back and stared down at the blood running out of the raider's head.

That didn't hold her attention. A thin red light cut through the dim and she might not have noticed it in the first place if not for the smoke billowing through the beam. It stopped in a wavering red dot on her chest.

Truth threw herself out of the way and hit the ground. She couldn't tell if the shot meant for her had been fired, but the light followed her. Starting to panic, she pushed herself up and scrambled to hide behind a wedge in the wall. When she peered around the corner, three figures were coming toward her out of the haze.

She leaned out from behind the wall and tried to fire at the closest of them, but the first one was already close enough to grab her gun by the barrel and wrench it from her hands. This close, she could see that they weren't raiders, they were something else entirely. They were dressed head to toe in quality armor, all uniform with a symbol on the breast that Truth couldn't make out with smoke in her eyes. She scrambled backwards and away, pulled her pistol from its holster and fired a few shots.

One of the well-armored men tackled her before she could see if any of her shots hit and they toppled off the platform and onto the tracks in the adjacent tunnel. She landed on her arm and leg, crushing them under the combined weight of her and her attacker, but instead of a cry of pain all she could get out was vicious coughing.

She still had the gun.

In the other tunnel, she thought she heard Charon yelling in exasperation that he could use her help and she wanted to strangle him. Her attacker had a billy club and he held her down by the strap of her backpack. She thrashed, trying to get both of her arms free. She threw one hand up to deflect the blows falling on her and with the other she pressed the gun into the space between the plates of his armor and fired into his stomach. He screamed and she punched him where she'd shot him before throwing him off of her and scrambling to her feet. He was curled up on the ground, but she kicked his helmet off and shot him twice in the head just to be sure he wouldn't get up again and surprise her.

She swung around to face the other two and was, again, too slow. One of them slugged her in the gut and grabbed hold of her so she couldn't run. The other knelt beside their fallen comrade. The man who had her wrestled the gun from her and threw it to the far end of the tunnel. She glanced behind her to see how much room she had left before she backed herself into a corner. By some miracle, there was an open door right behind her. She didn't know where it went, but it went away.

Truth wrenched her body, punched the man handling her in the face, then slipped out of the straps on her backpack and ran for the door. She slammed it shut behind her and swore when the lock wouldn't turn all the way. Instead of fussing with it she kept running down the stairs, throwing the mannequin and chair that had been left in the stairwell onto the ground behind her.

At the bottom of the stairwell she stopped briefly to take in the new room. It was full of machinery that took up two floors. A metal catwalk led to a platform supporting large engines and pipes. From there the catwalk ran across a second open space to a door. There were stairs on either end of the long room.

Behind and above her, the door she had slammed shut was knocked open and heavy footsteps landed on the stairs. She bolted across the catwalk and tucked herself behind one of the engines. The air was slightly clearer here and she was able to catch her breath, but the smoke in her lungs scratched her throat. She heard the men reach the bottom of the stairs and forcefully stifled the impending coughing fit.

She craned her head to see them conferring on where she might've gone, then one went down the stairs on their end of the room and the other started across the catwalk, shotgun at the ready. As far as she could see, she was trapped. She didn't know where these men had come from or why they chased her so intently but with no backpack and no gun, she might as well have been naked. She forced herself to stay calm, even though her heart was pounding and she wanted to roll into a ball and scream for mercy. They hadn't taken her knife yet, she had a chance.

She removed the combat knife from its place on her hip carefully and watched the man approach her hiding spot.

As soon as he stepped into reach, Truth launched from where she was crouched on the floor, jammed her shoulder into his crotch, and wrapped herself tightly around his leg. He stumbled and she seized the moment to slice through the back of his thigh where there was no armor protecting him. His leg spasmed and he collapsed, screaming and dropping his gun so he could grab the wound. A moment later, loud footsteps rang on the metal stairs his buddy had descended. Quickly, she crawled up to crouch on her target's chest, hit him across the head with her Pip-Boy to stop him from writhing, and then held his head down with one hand and slit his throat with the other.

The blood gushed out and Truth jumped to her feet, holding the knife between herself and the dead man's buddy defensively. He came to a halt when he saw what she'd done and his stone killer's face melted into a pool of anguish as he looked at the body. He hardly seemed aware of Truth.

Slowly, carefully, she returned her knife to its sheath without cleaning it and reached for the shotgun the dead man had dropped. The man standing across from her focused suddenly and his mouth warped into a hateful scowl that sent a chill down Truth's spine.

"Oh…" he said and returned his gun to its holster and starting toward her again, "you're gonna get it."

Truth gulped and dove for the shotgun, then screamed as she was dragged to her feet by her hair and thrown against one of the engines, never having touched the shotgun. She hit the ground and ducked under his hands to skitter away from him. Her feet found traction and she managed to stand and run across the second catwalk, through the door at the far end of the room. She tried to push this one shut too, but he was right on her heels and barreled into the door before it latched, making it fling open and smack Truth in the face.

Cutting her losses, she threw herself at him, punching and clawing in a wild attempt to get past him and out the door. She managed to bloody his nose before he doubled her over with a solid punch to the gut. He grabbed her, swung her around by her hair, and slammed her face into a countertop. There was blood in her mouth and she thought she felt the room lurch. She shrieked when he slammed her head into the counter a second and a third time, and more until she was disoriented and her legs refused to support her any more. She twisted her head against his grip frantically, trying to at least distribute the damage evenly if she couldn't break free. She had to stay conscious.

She managed to get her knife out of its sheath again but before she could do anything, he threw her to the ground. She landed flat on her back and knocked the air out of her lungs, which started another painful coughing fit.

Then he was sitting on her chest. She coughed and swung the knife at his face clumsily. He grabbed her arm and yanked the knife from her hand, then tossed it under a desk.

He was slowing down, she realized, because he had her. His eyes still shone with rage and she could feel it burning through his hands when he wrapped them around her throat and throttled her.

She was already slipping, she knew it, but there was a small part that became frantic at the start of this final attack. She sputtered angrily and reached up to claw at his face and his exposed throat, she stretched as far as she could but couldn't quite reach his eyes.

* * *

Most of the raiders were dead or incapacitated but Charon had not seen or heard his employer in far too long for his peace of mind. He grabbed the last standing figure, pulled it close to his face so he was absolutely sure it was not his employer, and then broke the raider's neck.

"Truth?" he called through the smoke, coughing into his arm, "Truth, are you okay?" There was no answer. None of the bodies belonged to her and Charon's heart was pounding painfully fast as he tried not to panic. Letting his employer die within three days of obtaining his contract would be not be a record he was proud of.

He found her railway rifle abandoned in the alcove joining the two rail tunnels and her backpack on the tracks in the other tunnel beside a body that had been shot in the head and stomach. The dead man was too well armored to be a raider and that was enough to arouse his suspicion. Charon rolled the body over and swore when he saw the white claw emblazoned on the breastplate. He might have lived under the rubble for the last seventy years, but enough news came and went through Underworld and Ahzrukhal had been steeped in enough unsavory business that he knew immediately.

Talon Company.

He could not breathe. He had to find her, and quick.

"Truth!" he shouted again, infuriated at the lack of an answer as he tried to decide which direction to start looking.

Then a scream broke through the hazy silence. Charon's breath came back to him. He dropped her belongings and ran through the door the scream had come from and down the stairs. On the catwalk where the ground fell away beneath him, he paused and looked down for any sign of her. None.

There was another of the Talon Company bleeding out in the center of the room. Charon only stopped long enough to make sure he would not be getting back up. Over the sound of the machines he heard a thump and a scuffling from the direction of a door standing ajar. He checked that his shotgun was loaded and moved across the second catwalk, careful not to make any noise, and pushed the door open.

They were on the floor. The mercenary's hands were wrapped around his employer's throat and her face was bloody, purple, and snarling. The sight enraged Charon.

He hit the mercenary in the back of the head, then dragged him off of Truth and threw him onto the catwalk outside the room. Behind him, Truth's loud gasping and coughing assured him that she was still alive. The man at his feet looked stunned and afraid. Charon could not crack a smile through his rage, but could not deny that he felt righteously satisfied to fire two rounds of shrapnel into the hitman's head.

When he returned to the room, Truth was dragging herself across the floor on her stomach and reaching for something under a desk. He knelt beside her and gently pulled her back toward him to see how badly she was hurt. She stiffened in his arms and turned toward him. There was a knife in her hand and she swung it at him with a grunt.

She was weak and he caught her arm easily before the knife came near him. Her eyes were barely open and she pulled pathetically against his grip, muttering slurred threats at him.

"Mistress. Truth. It's me, let go of the knife," he commanded and tried to ease the weapon out of her hand without waiting for her to comply. She was injured badly and if he could not calm her down, he could not help her.

Truth forced her eyes open and rolled her head around to look at him. Her eyes failed to focus on him even though there was no more than a foot of space between them and he could see her trying.

"…Charon?" she croaked.

"Yes."

She looked around the room frantically and tried to grab the knife back from him. "Where is he?"

"Dead." He pulled the knife out of her reach and set it on the desk behind him. She still looked confused and blood dripped off her chin from her mouth and nose. The purple of her face had lightened to bright pink but he could already see the broken blood vessels around her throat and the crown of her head where serious bruises would form. "You are safe, calm down. You may have a concussion."

A guttural rasp came out of her throat like she was trying to growl but could not and she pushed away from him. "I think I'd know if I had a concussion…" she muttered and tried to crawl away. A shudder passed up her spine. Charon saw her lurch forward and he grabbed a bucket lying on the floor and pushed it under her face just as she began to vomit.

When she finished, she slumped against the desk and sat there quietly for a moment, holding her head, before saying bitterly, "I might have a concussion."

Charon rolled his eyes and opened the pouch on his belt where he kept a few stimpaks. Truth had more medical supplies in her pack but that was upstairs and he could not retrieve it until he knew she would be okay. If she was going to make a hassle out of treating injuries and keep insisting on running headlong into danger, this employment would grow tiresome very quickly, no matter how polite she tried to be. It already angered him that she failed to mention that Talon Company was after her.

He cupped her head in his hand and turned the side of her neck up. She flinched and pulled away from him again. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

He kept his face ambivalently blank to hide his annoyance and showed her the stimpak. The hitman must have knocked her around pretty bad because it took him giving her an explanation before she understood what he was trying to do and then she argued with him until she was satisfied he knew how to use a stimpak properly. Only then did she let him touch her, squeezing her eyes shut and grimacing as he pushed the needle into her neck.

He was so tired.


End file.
